


I think that possibly, maybe I'm falling for you

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Books, Chocolate, Christmas, Coffee, Combeferre plays the piano, Courfeyrac is obsessed with photography, Cuddles, Dancing in the Rain, F/M, Fluff, Grantaire plays the guitar, Jehan Grantaire Cosette and Eponine work at this adorable bookstore, Kittens, M/M, Multi, Poetry, YOUR TEETH WILL ROT, and has a piano, baked goodies, bless those dorks, bookshop au, poetry which is not mine, sleep deprived Enjolras, which serves coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:50:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hits Enjolras when he enters <em>Librairie des Abbesses</em> on National Barricade Day, still unaware of the fact that he's going to be treated with the most delicious tricolor cupcakes in the universe, that it might be the same bookshop Courfeyrac has been hyperventilating about.<br/>It's only after he starts spending so much time there that he falls asleep on the books and wakes up covered in the same warm green blanket every time, when he realizes that maybe the bookseller with the icy blue eyes might be capable of more things than just making excellent coffee.<br/>*<br/>Jehan and Cosette own a bookshop which inevitably changes everyone's lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beauty is truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrantaireandHisBottle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/gifts), [Rose+Vincent](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Rose%2BVincent).



> I know that I have already made the patisserie AU which is extremely similar to this so let me apologize a million times for writing _another_ pointless fic but this is the bookstore of my dreams and it just had to become a thing so please forgive me for the ridiculous plotless fluff.
> 
> The title is from the beautiful song "Falling in love in a coffee shop".
> 
> Please give me your advice and opinion! Constructive criticism means the world!

_Click._

It is beautiful. Utterly charming. Tall bookcases made from old, callused wood with tall ladders hanging upon them, shelves all over the dark red walls, rusty chandeliers from antiques shops and books everywhere, on the floor between his feet, on small coffee tables and on the worn, brocade sofas and armchairs in every empty corner. A huge history section with a stash dedicated to French Revolution that Enjolras would even sacrifice his virginity for, a wide wall with nothing but science books, old, torn, dusty, just like Combeferre and Joly would love them and then literature, Realism, Modernism, Existentialism, Romanticism, horror novels, science fiction, comedies, plays, every author one could ever dream of. The only sound is the soft whispers and breaths of the few customers, their quiet thumping of their feet against the floor and the swishing of pages that turn. The scent of ink, old paper, coffee and flowers is diffusible all around the small, cozy bookshop and Courfeyrac can’t help but capture every single thing in his Polaroid.

_Click._

Enjolras is simply wrong when he says that Courfeyrac isn’t interested in reading. He does read, maybe not Rousseau, Camus and Montesqieu, but he still does. He loves Game of Thrones and Harry Potter so much, he _has_ spent his entire childhood idolizing the Weasley twins after all! Someone would say Colin Creevey as well, considering the fact that he goes everywhere with his camera.

_Click._

This tiny room is the coolest place he has ever been. A whole room with nothing but fantasy books! He knows that his jaw is hanging wide open while he snaps a few shots, the shelves sculpted on rock, and the most extraordinary mythical pictures, centaurs and chimeras, gargoyles, dragons and unicorns, beautiful princesses and elves painted all over the ceiling and the walls, so realistic and vivid that he feels like he’s in one of his favorite, fantasy worlds, like he’s jumped in one of Tolkin’s or Rowling’s or Paolini’s books.

_Click. Click._

As he takes more pictures, he feels a presence near him. He turns and finds himself faced with a blond angel who's smiling at him, the reason he finds himself in the bookshop in first place. It’s Cosette, Marius’ new girlfriend and former object of stalkerism and owner of the aforementioned bookshop. His roommate practically dragged him to his first date –who even _wants_ his roommate present in his first date with his girlfriend because he’s too shy to snog her on his own? Only Pontmercy- and he could do nothing but follow.

“You’re taking pictures? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s bloody _awesome_!” he cries enthusiastically. “You should host a cosplaying event or something. I could literally spend my entire life in this room!”

“Grantaire and Feuilly are very talented! They painted all this, with a little help from Jehan, of course!”

He whistles as he remembers Grantaire, the man with the unruly dark curls and the dark circles under his pale blue eyes. He recalls how admirably strong his tattooed arms were looking when he saw him organizing the books in the classics section, and he can't help but admire the actual amount of his talents.

_Click._

Another picture, and then he follows Cosette through another small door. “Who is Jehan?” he asks, but his question is interrupted with the most serene sight his eyes have ever beheld.

The room which smells of rose tea and flowers is full of high bookcases made from cherry wood. The floral tapisserie on the wall has shades of dusty pink, coral and beige, and there are two beds in a soft mint tone against the walls. On one of them a man has fallen asleep, an old book resting open on his stomach. His pale face is peaceful, his rosy lips and shut eyelids surrounded by freckles, and his ginger hair is braided in a plait around his shoulder. His chest is rising and falling rhythmically under a soft, creamy sweater with a pastel plaid pattern, clashing with his purple floral pants. His bubblegum pink army boots are scattered on the creamy carpet on the floor and he’s wearing mismatched yellow and purple socks with orange dots on them.

He’s gorgeous, and Courfeyrac’s camera needs him.

Well, maybe not _only_ his camera...

“That’s our Jehan,” smiles Cosette. “He works in the bookshop with me, Éponine and Grantaire. This shop is practically his own lovechild, he can go on for hours ranting about how big chain bookshops with an overly capitalistic mentality which lack originality and have _Fifty Shades of Grey_ on display instead of excellent classics or upcoming authors with potential, inevitably degrade the cultural level of every society which wishes to be called 'progressive'. Jehan was the one to talk to my father into giving half our earnings to non profitable humanitarian organizations. He's an angel. A wonderfully talented one. Whenever we’re not really crowded you’ll find him in the poetry room.”

“Do… do you think he’ll mind if I take some pictures?”

Cosette giggles knowingly and Courfeyrac hates how vulnerable he feels with his racing pulse and butterflies in his stomach. “I’m sure he won’t, though be careful. _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus_. And Jehan is a much bigger badass than he looks and if you wake him up he’ll probably try to suffocate you with a kitten embroidered cushion or strangle you with his yellow shoelaces.”

Courfeyrac nods mechanically. “I’m leaving you to your art,” says Cosette softly. “I have to make sure that Marius won’t get so overwhelmed with our linguistics books that he’ll forget to inhale for five minutes or something equally dangerous!”

_Click. Click. Click._

He is left alone with the sleeping man and he swears that he has never taken more beautiful pictures. _Click._ A half-finished cup of rose tea resting near the heavy pink boots on the floor. _Click._ A creamy hand with long, slender fingers spread protectively on the worn, dusty, beige cover of the book, a colorful rose tattoo peeking temptingly from a woolen sleeve. _Click._ Slightly parted lips, a sleepy sigh, a faint scent of gardenias. _Click._ Fluttering, ginger eyelashes as he stirs. Courfeyrac notices and immediately feels fucked.

The thin, petit man stretches like a cat on the bed, his eyes shutting tightly and his lips parting to a serene yawn. Courfeyrac remembers Cosette’s words and feels scared for his life, it would be a pity to die so young or have several important parts of his anatomy chopped off and sacrificed to the pagan God of Books or something like that.

But he can’t hide anywhere, he can’t move, because those eyelashes flutter open and he is faced with the warmest, most captivating dozed glance, a pair of dark brown eyes staring sleepily at him. “Flowers and grass and cloudless sky, resemble forms that are or seem, When sleepers wake and yet still dream,” he mutters with a drowsy smile, as if he has just woken up in delirium.

“Um… hello, Jehan. I’m Courfeyrac, sorry for waking you up…” he offers his hand.

“That’s ok, you must be Marius’ friend!” Jehan ignores his hand drowsily and leans to place soft pecks on both of Courfeyrac’s cheeks. The brunet thinks he might faint because it’s obvious that this is what Jehan is like, kissing people’s cheeks from the moment he meets them, radiating warmth and beauty and gardenia scent all around, existing to lighten the world or something along the same sugary poetic lines. “It’s very nice to meet you, I’ve only seen Marius once but he’s already told us about you, apart from communism and spiders and gummy bears and something in Spanish that I didn’t quite understand.”

Courfeyrac chuckles as they slowly pull away from each other and notices the flush on the other man’s cheeks. “That’s typical Marius for you! Wait until he starts talking to you about puppies. He’ll seriously be on the verge of hyperventilation. It’s a pity you didn’t meet him before he talked to Cosette, while he still followed her like a creeper after she returned home from the dentist. Those were the times!” Courfeyrac waves his hands around him, showing the room. “Your bookshop is adorable!”

Jehan smiles. “Thank you very much, it’s Cosette’s, really…”

“But she owes most of it to you.”

A violent blush spreads from Jehan’s freckled nose to his ears and the curve of his neck. “Well, this place literally is my life.”

Courfeyrac throws an eye at the golden, faded title of the book resting on Jehan’s lap. “Verlaine?”

Jehan smiles dreamily, rubbing the sleep off his eyes with his bent wrists. “I adore poetry.” That gives better sight of the flower tattoo to Courfeyrac, and he notices leaves and thorns being tangled around his wrist.

“I think I’ve noticed!” Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow.

“What do you do? Are you a photography student?”

Courfeyrac groans. “I wish. Law, just like Enjolras, but political activism takes up most of my time, really.”

Jehan looks like he’s suddenly woken up. “Political activism?”

“Yes, Enjolras is the leader of our group…”

It turns out that Jehan is extremely interested in politics, a dreamer who wishes to change the world just like them and seeks for his very own, different kind of freedom. Courfeyrac takes a seat near him on the bed and they sit cross-legged for quite some time, discussing political ideologies. His camera is abandoned between them.

It smells of gardenia.

Jehan’s opinions are strong and his soft voice becomes bold and fierce when he declares them.

Courfeyrac is in love.

After what seems like less than a minute but is apparently thirty, a girl with thick, knotted hair and dark circles under her eyes, wearing a huge faded Star Wars t-shirt and a pair of loose vintage levi’s above her brown army boots appears in the poetry room and stares at Jehan with exasperation. “I think I’ll drown in a lake of sugary awkwardness or rot my teeth in the honey that they ejaculate from their eyes! I will need your fuckin’ _assistance!_ ”

The girl’s dark glance and gritted teeth scare the hell out of Courfeyrac but Jehan simply smiles apologetically and gets up. “I’m sorry, ‘Ponine. We were discussing Voltaire and lost track of time. We’re coming.”

They can almost hear her roll her eyes before they stand up and follow her in another room which Courfeyrac hasn’t visited yet.

This must be the best fuckin’ room in the whole bookshop.

The walls are covered in artistic photographs which makes Courfeyrac literally drool. Spots of Paris in dawn and twilight, the Eiffel Tower, the hill of Montmartre with the Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame in night lights, and then sepia pictures of still life, a pair of high heels and a corset, a bouquet of flowers and a vintage bike, and people, gorgeous women in flapper dresses and ‘20s hairstyles, half-naked ‘60s hippies of both genders in vans, portraits of beautiful men and women smoking…

There is an actual gramophone with a disc on it, Cole Porter’s _Let’s fall in love_ scratching it rhythmically, and a dark brown piano on the opposite wall of the room. Small round wooden tables are surrounded by comfortable creamy armchairs. On one corner there is a desk with a _typing machine_ of all things on it, and on the other a small kitchenette with a terracotta counter, behind which stands a man with curly dark hair. “That’s Grantaire,” grins Jehan, pointing at the man who waves lazily at them. Courfeyrac notices a small window behind them, a bright source of spring morning light through mismatched yellow lace and leopard curtains. On the edge, there is a miniature garden in colorful pots, Pancies, gardenias, lilies and red roses, which fill the room with breathtaking scents.  

“Yes, I met him before,” smiles Courfeyrac blissfully at the whole sight, but then notices Marius and Cosette courting each other in a terribly amusing primary school manner. Just as Pontmercy gets Cosette’s hand in his own, he can’t hold himself anymore. “Look at Marius, our little boy all grown up, exploring the dark misty abyss of love!” he chimes while jumping all around the tables. Cosette giggles as Courfeyrac ruffles blushed Marius’ hair. "Maybe we should be going, Cosette," mutters Marius grumpily.

Cosette nods and they walk to the door, giving Courfeyrac the chance to chirpe “Have fun, kids and remember to always stay safe! Marius, I’ve slipped mango flavored condoms in the pockets of your jeans while you were rehearsing your love confession for Cosette in front of the bathroom mirror, you were absolutely dashing, my darling! I hope she did appreciate your charms…”

Marius looks ready to faint as he throws Courfeyrac a murderous glance which make him resemble of a Chihuahua and they wave goodbye before walking out of the door, Cosette's lavender skirt twirling around her ankles. 

"You broke the fuck out of him!" Grantaire snorts with laughter when the lovebirds are out of sight and Courfeyrac takes a seat in an armchair, looking pleased with himself. “You shouldn’t have done that to poor Marius,” says Jehan disapprovingly but hides a smile while disappearing behind the counter.

“Man, it’s _Pontmercy._ He won’t remember anything tonight, especially if he gets laid, which he probably won’t as he’ll be too busy holding poor Cosette’s hand and staring right into her soul or something!”

Éponine snorts and Grantaire shoots her a warning glance. “What will you drink?”

“A caramel machiatto would be excellent!” grins Courfeyrac, admiring the bookshop mentally for the hundredth time that morning.

They hear the tingling of the doorbell, indicating that customers have entered the bookshop, therefore Grantaire and Éponine rush to help them and Jehan remains alone with Courfeyrac in the tea room. They are silent for a while as Courfeyrac reads his book and Jehan prepares his coffee. Courfeyrac is not startled when the ginger man arrives with a disc as he never was really dedicated to his reading, but mostly shot glances at him instead, the way his lithe, slender body moves in those painfully skinny jeans and that huge sweater hanging upon his shoulders and collarbone…

He raises his eyes pretending to be startled though, and offers him a wide smile as the other man places a mug of hot coffee in front of him. Courfeyrac brings it slowly to his lips as Jehan waits nervously, and the sweet warmth that fills his body is nothing but pure heaven. It surely is the best coffee he has ever tasted.

When he stands up to pay and leave, before waving goodbye to Grantaire and Éponine who are struggling with a new arrival of children’s books, he feels something being pressed against his palm. He turns around and faces Jehan, who brings a long finger in front of his upturned, mischievous lips in order to hush him. He feels his heartbeat growing faster as he nods and walks out.

When he’s outside, in the magic of the Paris streets lit in the bright spring light, people chatting as they cycle or walk by, the inevitable smiles that April brings engraved on their faces, he takes his eyes away from the black door of the building with the **Librairie des Abbesses** sign and soon they come to rest on the small paper bag that Jehan pushed in his hand. Holding his breath, he carefully unwraps it and finds a brown cupcake with smooth, pale pink cream on top. On it, he can read words written with white icing: _Beauty is truth, truth beauty._

His heart is thumping madly in his chest as he takes a small bite and allows the faint taste of chocolate and rose paste together with the soft breeze of April to captivate his every sense.

*

“Keats,” mutters Combeferre, raising an eyebrow behind his spectacles, looking as thoughtful as if he’s going to declare a medical diagnosis to a patient. “I see…”

Courfeyrac looks completely desperate as he throws himself up, wearing nothing but his Hawaiian boxer shorts and his polka dot bow tie, and pinches Combeferre’s cheeks, forcing him to look up from his book and making him remind terribly of a huge human teddy bear dressed in light blue. “What? What the hell do you see?” he cries. “Is he trying to say something? What is he trying to say? That I’m beautiful, is that it? Do you think he’s interested? Oh shit what if he’s interested? Thank God you’re a medical student Ferre, because my poor young heart seems ready to break! Oh, woe is me…” with a dramatic tilt of his head, Courfeyrac collapses on Combeferre’s lap. This situation is completely new for his friends as he always was the one to give advice to them, what with being able to charm young people of any gender to his bed. It’s very strange for Courfeyrac to actually feel so obsessed with someone in such a different way, and to feel at such complete loss of how to deal with the situation.

The bespectacled man looks bemused. “The question is… are _you_ interested?”

Courfeyrac leaves a high pitched sound. “This shouldn’t even be a question! He’s beautiful like a true angel, he writes his own poetry on a motherfuckin’ _typing machine_! How original is that?”

“Hipster…” comes a mumble from Enjolras who is sitting in his favorite armchair, in the corner of the room, his eyes fixed on his laptop. “But then again, I’m speaking to the man who’s practically naked apart from a clown’s bowtie.”

Courfeyrac sticks his tongue out at him. “For your information, he's extremely interested in French Revolution and has a session dedicated to it!" That earns an interested look from the blond, even though he tries his best to disguise it. "Keep your nose out of the matters of my heart, alright? There’s a higher chance for Professor Javert to be getting laid right now than for you, what with living like a monk, stuck in this boring apartment all day!” He turns to Combeferre. “Teach me your poetic skills, master,” he begs, “My knowledge stops at roses are red, violets are blue! The dirty versions…” Combeferre tries to hide an amused smile but does not reply, focusing again in his book. “Pleaaase, ‘Ferre! He has the most glorious ass covered in floral! I don’t think my health will ever recover from that!”

“There is a protest rally next week and we’re losing our time talking about baristas’ _bottoms_!” growls Enjolras, raising his eyes from his laptop and shooting them a murderous glance. “Maybe we should leave the suffering, the starving and the oppressed in their fate and solve your love life issues, shouldn’t we? Does that idea appeal to you” his voice is particularly sarcastic and Combeferre rolls his eyes as Courfeyrac cries in an offended manner for the fact that Enjolras hasn't been paying attention to his narration:

“He isn’t a barista, he’s a _book seller!_ If _you_ are interested in baristas then maybe you should both come and meet the other two cute ones. The other guy has an admirable couple of biceps...”

“Courfeyrac spare me, I have a headache.”

“Nonsense... You just need to get laid!”

“Kids, behave or I'll have you both grounded!” Combeferre has his serious look on and that frustrates Courfeyrac so much that he throws himself from his lap and walks to the doorway, waving his hands furiously.

“Fine! Great! Go on and do that, treat me like shit, and when I marry the book seller we won’t even invite you to our wedding and we’ll say to our babies _What? Uncle Combeferre and uncle Enjolras? Oh, but you don’t have such uncles, darlings! Maybe you saw them on_ fuckin’ TV? And when you’ll both eventually fall desperately in love with the bicep dude and the I-will-kill-you-with-fire girl then I won’t be there to play the perfect matchmaker that I am and you’ll say _Oh how sad I am that I can’t have biceps and the Terminator in my bed, I was very wrong to treat my dear friend Courfeyrac like shit, oh how I miss my dear friend Courfeyrac who knew how to help me dress like a decent human being! How I regret everything that I’ve done to hurt his sensitive soul!_ But I won’t show you mercy, not in a million years, because you’ll not have helped me in my noble quest of wooing the floral arse!”

Enjolras is speechlessly staring at his best friend behind his laptop with a blank expression. When Courfeyrac finishes his dramatic delirium, Combeferre places his book neatly on the coffee table near his armchair and gets up, dragging his slippers to the bookcase and scanning it with his brown eyes. He drags a thin, old book from a shelf and returns, placing it in Courfeyrac’s hands. The dark haired man’s eyes fall on John Keats’ name on the cover. “We all love you Courf, alright?” Combeferre speaks slowly and reassuringly, as if he’s addressing a baby instead of a damsel in distress. “Now be a good boy and let Enjolras plan how to overthrow the government before he throws the _Kapital_ on you... The annotated edition.”

*

Courfeyrac comes again and again with his camera hanging from his neck and spends hours browsing through the books, sneaking glances to Jehan through the racks while the man organizes the travel guides or the Russian literature, stealing a shy smile or two and asking for help to buy a gift for Combeferre, another one for Enjolras, one for his mom and another for his cousin. And his second cousin. And his great aunt. Éponine and Grantaire exchange sarcastic glances, because Courfeyrac really must have a _huge_ family in which every member is extremely interested in reading cooking books and chess manuals.

One evening Jehan is sitting behind the counter of the literature room, his face flushed violently and his hands shaking slightly as he holds a book with a dried gardenia between two pages. Éponine notices while she puts some money from a customer who just left in the cashier, and before he can pull back, she has managed to grab the paper from him. “ _Yourself, your soul, in pity give me all?_ ” She reads aloud in a triumphant voice. “That’s underlined in purple pencil!”

“John Keats?” whistles Cosette. “I didn’t know Marius’ friends have such good taste!”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “That’s from the hipster, isn’t it?”

“He’s not a hipster!” protests Jehan, pulling the book back from Eponine’s grip. “He just happens to be incredibly _stylish_! And original!”

“You should answer him,” smiles Cosette.

“That I will,” replies a dumbstruck Jehan as Cosette buttons her light blue cardigan and walks to the door.

“I have to go, Marius is waiting for me,” she grins excitedly. “Will you guys be alright? Thursdays are never really crowded anyway!”

The three friends nod in unison and the blond girl waves her hand and opens the door, disappearing with a ring of the bell.

When Jehan disappears to the poetry section, Grantaire’s blue eyes get fixed on Eponine’s back who is tidying a pile of Joyce’s _Ulysses_ with rather overwhelming zeal. “Don’t tell me you’re upset with their date,” he mutters hoarsely. “I thought we’d already talked about this.”

Éponine doesn’t turn to face him, she just mumbles “do you remember where we put Flaubert?” when she most clearly is holding Balzac’s _History of the thirteen_ **.**

“She’s your best friend, Éponine,” groans Grantaire. “You can’t let fuckin’ _Pontmercy_ fuck everything up.”

She turns and faces him, her weary face flushed violently. “I didn’t _make_ it happen, alright?” she protests. “It wasn’t my fault that Pontmercy was so…”

“Dorky? Awkward? Idiotic?” Grantaire helps while examining his fingernails thoroughly.

“Yes,” she snaps. “And kind. Smart. _Himself._ I mean, hell, he probably speaks Italian in bed! How hot is that! How _Pontmercy_ is that!” She rests her back on the bookcase, rather breathless. “And guess what... I’ll never have him.”

It completely breaks Grantaire’s heart. Éponine is such a clever, strong woman, keeping a day job, studying in the night and raising her brother on her own. Cosette is wonderful and she deserves what she’s got, but Éponine deserves so much as well yet here she is, always making the wrong choices. He kneels on the wooden floor and searches between some books on the lower shelf. Like a true magician, he produces a bottle of beer and hands it to her. "Here, to the things we'll never have."

“Where did you find that?”

“I keep some behind Plato’s _Symposium,”_ he simply shrugs his shoulders.

She opens the bottle with her teeth and sighs, before taking a sip. “What would we do without each other, R?” she moans.

He throws his arms around her bony shoulders and pulls her closer. She smells of books, cigarettes and cake dough. It’s a very familiar scent that these two share and it always comforts both of them when they’re feeling down. “I know, right? What would you do without me puking all over your carpet?” he chuckles sarcastically, yet in a tender voice. “What would I do without your whining about the wet knickers _Pontmercy_ gives you?”

“What would we do if we didn’t watch porn and eat tons of Chinese after getting pissed drunk every night?” she groans, nuzzling her nose in the crook of his shoulder as he runs his fingers through her knotted hair.

“Do you know what we need to complete our happiness together?” asks Grantaire. “A cat. Or eleven.”

“We’d forget to feed them...”

“Right.”

“They’d starve and then eat the bulbs of our eyes or something.”

“That’s ok, we might get blinded by all the wanking anyway, isn’t that what they say?”

Éponine chuckles bitterly and pulls away from Grantaire’s hug.

“Come on, I hear the bell. Maybe it’s the hipster, hopefully bearing some hot friend! Whoever reaches the door first confiscates the friend for their own!"

*

“You are such a horrible friend! You won’t come to the bookshop with me to meet Jehan! Combeferre agreed to come today! Even _Bahorel_ came, and you know that he’s allergic to books! There was one of Jehan’s friends there, a ginger called Feuilly who is an artist and hand-paints fans –does anyone even _buy_ fans these days?- and they were ready to end up wrestling on the floor because Bahorel fucks his classes and Feuilly finds that ungrateful because he’s poor and he needs to work _and_ educate himself but guess what! Apparently they found a pair of Nerf guns near the kids books section and now they've become best buddies or something! Did you know that Bahorel knows the biceps guy from his boxing classes?”

“For the last time, Courfeyrac. The protest rally is in less than a week. Do you know what that means?”

“Um... that you're getting snappy and overly caffeinated again?”

“No," Enjolras says in a dangerously slow pace, narrowing his glowing eyes. "It means that I am not. Fuckin’. Interested. In _anyone's. Two headed. Upper arm. MUSCLES_!”

*

Éponine and Grantaire race to the door. Éponine wins. _-You smoke too much, loser!_

It is indeed the hipster with the bowtie.

And apparently, he happens to be bearing a friend with him.

A nerdy friend with a crisp blue shirt and the warmest chocolate brown eyes behind thick-framed glasses.

Éponine doesn’t even try to hide a sigh of disappointment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus is from the Harry Potter series and means "Never tickle a sleeping dragon".  
> The poems are from John Keats.  
> "Flowers and grass and cloudless sky, resemble forms that are or seem, When sleepers wake and yet still dream" is from William Butler Yeats' _Under Ben Bulben_.


	2. What spring does to the cherry trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What drunken Dionysus is least expecting to see, is a golden Apollo who enters the shop that day, followed by the cheerful ring of the bell, as if it’s fuckin’ normal for Gods of light to wander around in Paris streets in red V-neck sweaters and browse casually through the Patria Day section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know that almost everyone uses Neruda's 'Every day you play' as a poem for Jehan and Courfeyrac, but that's simply because it seems to have been /written/ for those two! So I'm sorry for using it again (I might have done that before in the past) but it just wouldn't seem complete without them!  
> Enjolras just made his appearance and I know this didn't have much of E/R interaction, but I'm planning to make it E/R centric from the next chapter, so don't worry and thank you for tolerating with me:)

Combeferre literally has no idea why he hadn’t followed Courfeyrac at the bookshop all this time. It wasn’t that he hadn’t praised it enough, just his best friend tended to exaggerate some times.

Now that probably was not the case.

The scent of old books was heavy in the air, in the only way a heavy scent can be pleasant – _heavenly-_ and Combeferre finds himself feeling slightly dizzy at the sight of all those titles on the shelves, engraved, faded covers, used and new, books without a title on the side, hundreds of hidden, mysterious gems, begging to be discovered. Suddenly he’s wishing that Courfeyrac and his flower guy will get married today in order for him to have an excuse for staying there for the rest of the day. With May just around the corner, the recent period of time has been completely exhausting because of everything he has to study for University, combined with his practice at the hospital. Therefore the sight of the comfortable sofas near the bookcases make him want to squeal with excitement.

However Combeferre is a man who can control the display of his feelings most of the time, no matter how strong they might be, and gives a polite smile to two of the shopkeepers who arrive at the door to greet them, oddly looking as if they had run.

 

“Good morning,” smiles Courfeyrac cheerfully. “Here I am again!”

“Let me guess,” the skinny girl with the dark hair raises an eyebrow, “it’s your niece’s birthday and you need a present!”

Courfeyrac winks. “Almost. But I also came to study and I would fancy something sweet first!”

“We have chocolate cake today,” says the man with the dark, wild curls and the pale blue eyes, waving his hand at the direction of the tea room theatrically. “We also have macaroons, eclairs and a poet! Choose whatever you wish!”

It is Combeferre’s turn to raise a disbelieving eyebrow as he is fairly unused to the sight of a blushing Courfeyrac, let alone a blushing Courfeyrac who’s feeling the urge to _study_ and now nods and disappears inside.

“Are you another friend of Pontmercy’s?” asks the girl and Combeferre shrugs his shoulder with a cautious smile, as he thinks he's imagined a hint of darkness covering her glance.

“I suppose so…”

“Well, I’m Éponine,” she offers him her hand and he shakes it, noticing how cold it feels against his own. “I’m currently struggling with a horrible hair day as well as with a habit of stating the patently obvious, like the fact that I work at a bookshop but never have time to read myself, so if you need any help you’d better ask Jehan or Grantaire here,” she smacks the other man on the back teasingly even though it almost breaks his body in two, “but be careful to not ask him anything about the classics because he’ll probably start a never ending drunk rambling which will carry on for the rest of the week, or something.”

Grantaire sighs and nods at Combeferre. “Thank you for the introduction, ‘Ponine. You’re always very helpful.”

“I’m Combeferre and I feel delighted to meet you both,” he seems to be radiating a strange sort of warmth and peace all over the room, his brown eyes glowing behind his spectacles and his well-shaven cheeks faintly flushed. “This is indeed a wonderful place!”

Éponine shrugs. “Yeah, well we’re all awesome everyone keeps saying… Make yourself at home which doesn’t mean that you can start walking around naked, even though I’m sure that your friend will soon be sporting that habit.”

Combeferre nods sheepishly and turns his attention to the fairly interesting psychiatrics section as Éponine and Grantaire retire on the back of the room to organize the comics and finish their beer.

*

Even though half a dozen of customers are spread in the different sections of the bookshop, only two are seated on different tables in the tea room, and Jehan has already served them. They both seem contented and deeply lost in the books they’re reading, so Jehan can afford the luxury of sitting cross-legged at the desk and type quickly in the machine, filling the room with the pleasant, rhythmical noise. Occasionally he shuffles a bit on his seat and scribbles a little something on a small notebook near the typing machine, scratching the pencil quickly against the paper.

When he notices Courfeyrac standing at the door of the room, his heart starts pounding madly in his chest, to the rhythm of Edith Piaf’s _Padam Padam_ which comes from the gramophone. He almost trips over his own feet at his attempt to stand up and walk towards him, but Courfeyrac is faster and has already entered the room. “Are you writing?” he asks excitedly. “Can I see?”

Jehan presses his lips together and shakes his head, blushing slightly. “I don’t really… you know, let people _see.._.”

Courfeyrac nods, his heart thumping in the lines of _has he written about me? Has he written about me?_ He makes a gesture with his head, showing the room. “It’s not very crowded today. Do you think you could afford maybe… joining me for a coffee or two? I would love your company while I study!”

Jehan raises an eyebrow. “I actually have my day off today which means that I don’t even have to be here so yes, I suppose I can join you… But won’t my company _distract_ you from your studies?”

Courfeyrac leans forward and slowly twists a ginger lock which has escaped the poet’s braid around his index finger. “If so, the distraction will be rather welcome,” he breathes, sending a warm wave of air to brush Jehan’s cheek. There is silence for a few seconds that seem like eternity, Courfeyrac’s finger abandons the curl and their eyes lock together, bright green tea with warm, brown coffee. “You have your day off so I have an idea…” Courfeyrac finally interrupts it. “Let’s get away!”

Jehan stares at him incredulously. “What?”

Their fingers entangle and Courfeyrac holds the rose tattoo tightly in his warm hand, rubbing circles on it with his thumb. “Come with me. Consider me your new official day-off planner!”

The only thing that Jehan can do is smile.

*

What with Cosette and Jehan being away, Grantaire is needed in the tea room and he has both his hands busy. That leaves Éponine to help every customer with the books, and even though she underestimates herself, she does a rather excellent job guiding them with their purchases.

Customers come and go, she even notices Jehan and Courfeyrac walking out of the door, but only one man seems unwilling to ever leave. The newcomer with the glasses is kneeled in front of several different bookcases –Éponine has counted medicine, Philosophy, modern French literature and math- literally digging the shelves with his head and building huge towers of books waiting on the floor near him. He then spends hours seated on a couch, lost behind heavy, dusty covers, his eyes moving furiously across the pages as if the books are threatening to vanish from his hands any minute now.

Evening comes, the sun sets and most customers pay and leave. Grantaire gives her a firm hug and disappears out of the door. She feels completely exhausted, her feet are killing her as well as the rest of her sore muscles and she desperately needs a painkiller; customers sometimes give her impossible headaches.

Seeming to not have noticed the lack of traffic around him, the man is seated on a brocade sofa, balancing a couple of huge books on his lap. He undoubtedly looks tired as well. He’s holding back a few yawns and his glasses are slipping dangerously from the bridge of his nose. He looks so peaceful and if Eponine’s head wasn’t spinning with exhaustion, she could easily spend a few more hours staring at him and drowning in the pleasant peace which happens to be completely absent from her life. “Hey, dude,” she says boldly instead, startling him slightly. “We’re closing.”

He immediately shuts his book, raising a small cloud of dust in the room. “I’m so sorry,” he breathes quickly, “I didn’t want to keep you here, I’ll just… let me buy these and I’m leaving immediately!”

Her eyes widen at the huge pile he intends to buy and is able to afford as well, but they walk to the cashier and he gives him three paper bags to put his new books inside. He looks terribly ashamed, and keeps mumbling “I’m sorry… I’m such an idiot!”

Éponine shuts her eyes for a while, then opens them with a sigh, not really expecting to be faced with such a warm glance. “Look, don’t feel guilty, it’s alright!” she mutters. “I mean, I would normally have kicked you out,” she rushes to add, “but you are Pontmercy’s friend and you are so different both from Courfeyrac and Bahorel… I mean, don’t get me wrong, that Bahorel guy was _so_ cool, but _you_ didn’t happen to throw down a shelf with a Nerf gun, right?” She gives him a small smile. “Come on, let’s have a cup of something before we close the shop.”

He quickly shakes his head. “No, absolutely no way, I couldn’t become more of a burden, I must go home…”

Éponine grits her teeth and he has to admit that she is indeed rather scary. “I said that you’ll have a cup and _you will!_ ”

He follows her to the coffee room and he’s nevertheless ready to thank her politely and insist on leaving, but then his eyes fall on the brown piano and his breath hitches on his throat. “Would you… would you terribly mind if I played a bit while you'd be serving me?”

Éponine shrugs her shoulders. “Sure, go ahead.”

She’s expecting to hear another customer who knows a song or two and struggles to play them… Of course she doesn’t judge them as she doesn’t know how to play _anything,_ it’s just that she always finds herself so tired from everything to appreciate their charming efforts.

But Combeferre is not like that. Oh no, _of course_ Combeferre would not turn to be a damn typical client. No. Combeferre is a fuckin’ _jazz pianist_ , that’s what he is.

She’s behind the counter, pouring some sugar in the mug when her hands go limp and her eyes follow his bent figure on the piano seat as the most magical melody fills her senses. She recognizes a piece by Edith Piaf, after all Jehan keeps playing them all the time on the gramophone and she is immediately captivated by the gentleness with which every note flows after the other, wrapping her in a veil of warmth and absolute sweetness, like she’s tasting the chocolate she’s preparing for him.

Taking the mug with the warm beverage in her hands, she slowly walks towards the piano, in order to not disturb him. She stares at him behind his shoulder, while he caresses every black and white key softly as if he’s making love to them, slightly tilting his head back and forth. To the scent of the chocolate she’s holding comes his own scent to be added, a faint mixture of soap, wool and musk. She takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes as the song changes to a stunning melody, wondering for a while how those strong, long fingers would feel when wrapped between her own, or between her hairs, or cupping her face…

And after what seems like a blissful eternity she opens her eyes because _Pontmercy_ is somehow invading in her thoughts again and everything is so wrong and confusing, because how can she be dreaming such things (that are very different from casual, bad sex of which she usually gets a fair share) for a man when she’s in love with another?

The song soon finishes and he stops, turning to stare at her, his cheeks a little flushed and his eyes glowing preciously underneath the lenses of his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, “I got a little carried away, I haven’t touched a piano since I left my parents’ house...”

“Which was that song?” she asks breathlessly.

“The Second Waltz by Shostakovich,” he answers quietly. “Did you like it?”

“It was… hell it was _gorgeous._ I mean, it makes me want to kiss you right now, don’t worry I’m kidding of course, but I’ve never heard anyone play so beautifully on this piano, Grantaire plays the guitar and Jehan the accordion and Cosette plays the piano very well but _you…_ Man your fingers are _heaven sent_! You are welcome to come and play _all the time_! Just be careful for Jehan to not fall in love with you because I’m not sure Courfeyrac will be really pleased then!”

There is a pregnant silence for a while and then he flushes her a pleased smile. “You’re very kind, thank you,” he clears his throat as she hands him the mug. “What is this?” he asks politely.

“Chocolate. With a hint of caramel syrup.”

“How did you know I have a weakness for chocolate?” he grins softly, bringing the mug on his lips and taking a sip.

Oh hell he _does_ have a weakness for chocolate, and this must be the best beverage he’s ever tasted in his entire life. It’s not smooth like the one he makes, on the contrary it’s fierce, bitter and spicy like her own dark eyes and burning glance, and the contrast with the salty caramel is simply heavenly. “Thank you,” he mutters, considering that he might indeed accept her invitation as he feels quite bonded to everything in that shop.

*

“Make a wish,” mutters Jehan and Courfeyrac chuckles. “Do you believe in that?”

Jehan simply nods and stares dreamily at the place in the sky where a star just fled from.

“Here, I made my wish. Do you want to know?”

Jehan turns to stare at the beautiful boy with the sparkling green eyes and the chocolate curls. “If you tell me then it won’t come true.”

“Right,” nods Courfeyrac, then raises his head at the sky. They are sitting by the Seine, their bikes parked near their bench. Jehan’s bike is quite a sight, painted lavender with a straw basket full of cakes and notebooks. Courfeyrac notices that his fingers are always smudged with ink and he tends to stain the freckled skin of his face as well, as he touches his brow or the tip of his nose unconsciously. The lights of Notre Dame rising glorious above them do not diminish the power of the stars in the dark sky, and soon they find themselves holding hands, their fingers wrapped tightly together. Jehan’s hand is cold and Courfeyrac _knows_ that he can never let it go.

The poet’s glance is distant and lost, his pale, angelic face lit by the moonlight as he speaks hoarsely. “Moon and Star, though you’re very far- There is one-” he slowly lowers his eyes and turns to stare at a breathless Courfeyrac, “…farther than you- He- is more than a firmament –from Me- So I can never go…”

“Um… Shakespeare?” Courfeyrac does a hopeful attempt to guess.

Jehan chuckles softly, and the brunet thinks he can melt in the sound. “Dickinson.”

They sit still for a while, not speaking because they do not need to. They barely even notice when it starts to rain, until a bunch of drunken British tourists get up and walk away, leaving the platform empty apart from a couple of the bateaux mouches which light the area and fill it with live music.

Jehan suddenly gets up and pulls Courfeyrac’s hand gently.

“What?” the cheerful man’s smile falls. “Are we leaving because of the rain?”

The poet shakes his head, looking oddly flushed. “No,” he corrects him, “we’re _dancing_ because of the rain.”

And just like that, without thinking about it any further, they both find themselves underneath the pouring rain, Courfeyrac’s arms wrapped around the smaller man’s lithe, slender waist, and Jehan’s around the other’s firm shoulders, swaying slowly while thin raindrops fall on their noses, hair and eyelashes and they are so close that they can see every single one of them in the dim light, they can feel each other’s breath on their skin, Jehan can smell the coffee and the vanilla scent underneath the smell of the rain and Courfeyrac’s after shave and it’s intoxicating, so he shuts his eyes and rests his head on the man’s shoulder after leaving a dreamy sigh.

The live saxophone and piano from inside a boat are playing _Que Sera Sera_ and they both smile blissfully at the true meaning of the words as their feet move in unison.

The song finishes and they stop, breathless, but never unwrapping from each other. They can feel their heartbeats pounding against their pressed bodies and their faces are only inches away.

Courfeyrac shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath feeling the taste of the rain on the edge of his lips, waiting for some reason for Jehan to kiss him. It is a tantalizing set of seconds and he can’t call it a kiss, it’s more of smooth lips that taste of raspberry brushing softly for an instant against the corner of his own. “We need to leave,” he then feels the poet’s shuddering voice against his skin. “April with its rain is teasing us and for no reason should we succumb.”

Their embrace breaks and Courfeyrac is sure that his heart is about to explode out of his chest as Jehan rushes to his bike and takes a thankfully dry paper bag out of it. “Here,” he breathes, handing it to him and climbing on his bike. “I need to go.”

“Will I see you?” shouts Courfeyrac helplessly to be heard through the rain.

Jehan’s hair and sweater are already soaked wet when he turns his head from above his bike to shoot him a flushed glance. “Bon app _é_ tit!” is all that he shouts, smiling shyly yet mischievously, before cycling away.

Inside the paperbag, Courfeyrac finds a dark red cupcake with green icing on it, forming words calligraphically. _The voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses._

His fingers are trembling when they reach inside the wet now, paperbag, to find something more.

A dark red, dried rose.

*

Combeferre hands him a book with E.E. Cummings’ poetry and Courfeyrac hardly resists the urge to pull his best friend into an affectionate kiss. He steals another one of Enjolras’ well sharpened pencils and underlines it, before slipping it behind the counter with a dried, white gardenia inside.

_Flowers resembles beauty less than our breathing._

It becomes a habit.

*

He entraps their moments between the white frames of Polaroid pictures.

_Click._

They are behind the counter of the coffee room, making pastries in the small, terracotta kitchen. They’re both wearing aprons, one of them writing _We’ll see if tea and buns can make the world a better place_ from _The Wind in the Willows_ and the other _C.S. Lewis’_ words _You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me._ The air smells of and tea and vanilla and they taste the dough with their fingers, staining each other’s nose.

_Click._

Jehan is beautiful, today wearing a pocket watch whose chain is peeking out of the pocket of his light blue dungarees. He looks like he’s burst out of a whimsical fairytale, maybe _Alice in Wonderland_ or something of that sort, and Courfeyrac can’t stop taking photos. The slight curling of his lips as he smiles, the tattoo on his hand which is covered in flour…

Jehan laughs and Courfeyrac wishes he could take a photo of his laughter as well. He wonders what colors the poet’s laughter would have.

The colors of spring. Of lavenders and forget-me-not’s, the pale yellows of clivias and the rich pinks of cherry blossoms…

_Click. Click._

There is chocolate on Jehan’s cheek. It makes such a beautiful picture and Courfeyrac needs to taste it, not from the spoon in the porcelain bowl but from the poet’s skin because then he’ll have a part of him inside him…

His thumb reaches for the drops of brown sweetness and he feels Jehan flinching underneath his touch. Courfeyrac slowly traces his tongue over his thumb, smiling serenely at the taste.

They are so close and their breaths smell of chocolate, vanilla and raspberries.

Jehan slowly pulls away.

They water the flowers on the edge of the window. Outside they can see the trees on the pavement.

“I have something for you,” whispers Jehan, and uncovers a plate which was hidden by a kitchen towel.

The two cupcakes are pink today, with red letters on the frosting.

_I want to do with you_

_What spring does with the cherry trees_

It’s Cosette who sneaks inside and takes the picture.

_Click._

Their lips are brushing softly together, exchanging sweet crystals.

The kiss tastes of sugar.

*

“For Merlin’s sake, get a room you two, Gavroche is coming here after school and I don’t want his teeth to rot!” growls Éponine, dusting the piano and gathering the books some customers have left on the coffee tables.

“Snogging in the kitchen, all over the freshly baked cookies cannot possibly be sanitary,” mutters a thin, pale man nervously, before eyeing his coffee suspiciously.

“You can drink this, buddy,” Grantaire pats him on the shoulder reassuringly. “ _I_ made this, and I swear it doesn’t contain any of your friend’s semen in it.”

The man named Joly, whom Courfeyrac brought to the bookstore together with his boyfriend and girlfriend, hardly seems comforted by those words, and does not touch his coffee for the rest of the day.

The bald named Bossuet sighs with a small smile, patting Joly’s hand with his own. “He’s only kidding, baby. It’s okay!”

Joly nods rather zealously, croaking something incoherent which could be equally a  _What a fine, shiny day it is today_ as much as a _No, I’m fine, no problem at all, I’m not having mental images of Courfeyrac’s bodily fluids right now_.

Musichetta seems absolutely ecstatic as she peers in the tea room, holding tons of books in her arms. “This is such a wonderful place! I found that wonderful biography of Fermat _and_ an excellent kintting guide _and_ a Duke Ellington Memorabilia scrapbook!”

Eponine turns her head to the couple who is still rather intimate over the baked goodies and shouts to Courfeyrac: “You know that Jehan has just heard about knitting and has not jumped up half a meter in ecstasy? I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing to him, but if you hurt him I’ll hunt you down and eat your balls roasted with barbeque sauce!”

Joly’s face lights up when the conversation turns to books, and he even forgets to wince at Eponine’s threat. “I found the most excellent Medical Encyclopedia! I’m definitely coming back!”

Just then, they hear a loud crash and hot tea is spilt all over Musichetta’s skirt, earning an exasperated groan.

Bossuet raises his shoulders apologetically. “I _might_ have broken a cup.”

Courfeyrac spends the rest of the day –the parts when he’s not producing disturbing noises with Jehan, at least,- moaning of how much fun they’re having and of how all of his friends have visited the bookstore, apart from _that buttface, Enjolras._

Grantaire swears to God, he doesn’t need to hear the name of that Enjolras again, thank you very much.

*

He has never been a spring type. Spring is for Jehan and his new boyfriend and their sickening public displays of affection under cherry trees and shit, spring is for Marius and Cosette and her sweet pastel cardigans and pearl necklaces and puppies.

Spring is not for him, spring is _laughing_ at him.

Spring finally comes to an end, June arrives and he can finally dream of the dreadful, humid summer in Paris, when he will stay here, broke, while everyone else will go to the sea and serve tourists, getting pissed drunk every single night. He can deal with summer even when it’s the National Barricade day, and Jehan has had that idea of those stupid tricolor cupcakes…

While he fixes the books on the Classics shelf, he thinks that spring is for Aphrodite and Demeter, but he’s a decadent Dionysus and he can only be thankful for the disguised misery of the hot summer that is just around the corner.

What drunken Dionysus is least expecting to see, is a golden Apollo who enters the shop that day, followed by the cheerful ring of the bell, as if it’s fuckin’ normal for Gods of light to wander around in Paris streets in red V-neck sweaters and browse casually through the special _Barricade_ section.


	3. Le jour de gloire est arrive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man with the blue eyes is standing at the same place, not having moved at all as if he’s expected him to return, and that, in addition to his annoying, sarcastic smile, make Enjolras even more impatient. “I just remembered that I must buy some pastries… for my sister’s birthday.”
> 
> He’s an only child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you the fic would get E/R centric so here it is:) I really hope you'll like the beginning of their story!  
> The title is from La Marseillaise, due to the celebratory mood of the chapter. Sorry not sorry.

Enjolras loves bookshops and he’s sure that is quite obvious. He can spend hours in a bookshop, reading, making huge lists of what he hasn’t yet read on his cell phone, and trying to resist the guilty pleasure he finds in the habit of buying again a title he already has, just because he likes it so much. Sometimes he gives suggestions to the shopkeepers for the way they should have arranged their collection or for the best French translation of a foreign work, some others he just proceeds to sneakily change the order or display of the books in the way he thinks is proper, without asking for permission first.

He also trusts Courfeyrac. No, he really does. Despite the numerous strippers of unidentified gender who might or might not have burst out of his cakes during several of Enjolras’ birthday celebrations, Courfeyrac _is_ trustworthy and someone to rely on. One should not forget how devoted and energetic a member of their political group the man is, and how considerably clever as well.

The problem is that Courfeyrac has the habit of exaggerating sometimes, and even though Enjolras is sure that yes, it’s a pretty nice bookshop, he already has a member card on that one on the end of their street, and does not have the urge to change two lines in the metro in order to visit a different one, especially during his finals, a period in which he has to balance both his studying and his activism.

Days pass and Courfeyrac leaves him alone. He’s too occupied with his new boyfriend, and Enjolras feels happy for his friend, he really does, but he wishes that Courfeyrac would sit down and study for his _own_ exams at some point, without having Combeferre babysit him.

He has almost forgotten everything about it that day when he gets off the metro and takes a walk in the lively, noisy Paris streets, having spent a sleepless night bent over his textbooks, causing his head to throb violently with weariness. He needs some fresh air, he’s already ahead of his studying, which means that he can afford a small break. Just for an hour or two.

And then his feet bring him before that shop, **Librairie des Abesses,** and he remembers.

How could he have ever forgotten? _He,_ of all people?

It’s the sixth of June.

His mind is not functioning properly, blame it on sleep deprivation, so he hardly cares for the name of the shop, therefore for its genre as well. All he can see is the huge tricolor letters on the shop window. _Happy Barricade Day!_

The June Rebellion! The fallen barricades! The French Revolutionaries he has spent hours writing about in essays of his history class, imagining, admiring, feeling like they are his friends, having sacrificed themselves for freedom and liberty.

His heart is beating quickly in his chest as he walks inside, like a child excitedly waiting for Santa Claus to come, trying not to fall asleep.

When he enters, he realizes it is a bookshop.

And God, it’s excellent.

A huge bookcase is pointed by a tricolor sign, indicating that it’s a day’s special. He rushes there, his hands almost shaking in anticipation as he starts browsing through hundreds of different titles about The French Revolution, the Rebellions that followed, books about the barricades, literature and poetry, books about French history in general and then Rousseau and Voltaire and everything else he has ever needed in his life. A huge smile has appeared on his face, and after he faintly thinks that he _has_ to buy that edition of _The Social Contract_ again, even though he already has three copies, no matter how shamefully this might bring him a step closer to consumerism, his fingers trace softly over the edge of a colorful book with recipes for tricolor pastries. He can hardly hold back a chuckle, and he literally jumps up a meter high when someone clears his throat behind his back.

When he turns around, he is faced with the bluest eyes he has ever seen, they are cold and very likely to send a chill through his bones despite the warm June weather and Enjolras is absolutely certain that he desperately needs some sleep, because it’s just wrong to be staring at dark curls and that defined collarbone peeking out of the man’s t-shirt, especially on Barricade Day. “May I help you?” the man asks rather lazily, resting against some shelves. His eyes fall on the cooking book Enjolras is holding, and the blonde feels the immediate urge to disappear. “We’re selling those in the coffee room,” the dark-haired man raises an eyebrow, smiling with a hint of what seems to Enjolras like sheer sarcasm and he wishes he might be wrong.

“That’s alright,” mutters Enjolras, feeling inexplicably annoyed towards the man’s composure. “I’ve already found the books I want to buy.”

“I mean, you could definitely use a cupcake or two,” continues the man with the blue eyes who appears to be working here, interrupting him. “Man, you look as if you’ll pass out any minute!”

Enjolras looks offended, he can’t recall giving a shopkeeper the right to comment on his appearance! After all he’s sure he can’t be looking _that_ bad, he slept for a good eight hours two nights ago, and he knows for a fact that he’s having a good hair day! Dude should probably look at his own reflection on the mirror, he’s unshaved and his eyes are surrounded by dark circles and he _reeks_ of whiskey! How _dare_ he…

“I’m feeling perfectly fine,” he replies rather boldly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have… that thing.” He abandons half-a-dozen books that he was intending to buy on the shelf, and walks away, after nodding sharply to a salutation.

It’s only when he finds himself outside, that he realizes how hungry he really is, what with Combeferre having spent the biggest part of those two days doing his practice at the hospital, and actually caring to feed him, and he remembers how delightful those pastries looked in that book, that he decides to walk back inside, extremely angry with himself.

The man with the blue eyes is standing at the same place, not having moved at all as if he’s expected him to return, and that, in addition to his annoying, sarcastic smile, make Enjolras even more impatient. “I just remembered that I must buy some pastries… for my sister’s birthday.”

He’s an only child.

“Of course,” smirks the shopkeeper, and turns around. “Follow me, please.”

He doesn’t manage to take more than a quick glimpse of the other sections of the bookshop, but every magnificent corner seems rather familiar, as if he’s heard or read somewhere about it, and he has to admit that not only it is a very atmospheric place, but it smells like complete _heaven_ and he can only dream of touching those old, yellowish pages and frayed covers, and inhale deeply that scent of ages and wisdom as he opens the book…

Oh.

It smells of coffee here. And pastries. Chocolate. And praline. And vanilla. And fruit. And… stuff, that Enjolras cannot recognize.

On the terracotta counter, there are a couple of large baking pans, full with hundreds of cookies, macaroons and cupcakes, all of them red, white and blue. Enjolras realizes once again how hungry he is, he hasn’t had a proper meal for what seems like ages, what with being busy studying, and everything looks so sweet and welcoming and _tricolor,_ he feels his heart pounding in the rhythm of the Marseillaise and he feels proud and awestruck as images of brave revolutionaries fighting at the barricades of 1832 fill his mind.

“Well?” smirks the dark-haired man.

“Um…” Enjolras clears his throat. “I would like some of… of these cookies. Half a kilo. And… and two cupcakes.” He’s going to surprise Combeferre and Courfeyrac. How happy he will make them! They are not used to him making their day and he has to show his friends how much they mean to him…

He imagines watching them licking the frosting of those amazing cupcakes and feeling left-out and jealous like a small child.

No.

“Make it three.”

The other man looks terribly amused and that deeply confuses Enjolras. It’s something about the hint of sarcasm in his glance, the small smile which doesn’t really reach his eyes, that truly annoys the young student. “Will that be all?” he asks while placing three cupcakes in a paper box.

“Yes, that will be all,” he mutters uncertainly, his eyes falling on the round little macaroons, and finally hesitates before pulling his wallet out of his bottom pocket.

He can’t prevent himself from noticing how fit the man is, how strong his arms look inside his short-sleeved shirt, and he feels even more annoyed as he takes his change, because he clearly spends all his spare time in a gym, not caring at all for any change around him and in himself, not bothering to educate himself and…

“Tell your sister that being such a nationalist is quite frowned upon in modern, civilized societies,” mutters the man with a small smile as Enjolras turns around to leave, and makes the blonde freeze in his place, flushing violently.

He turns around to face him again, obviously pissed off. “Holding a healthy amount of love and veneration for your country does not make you a nationalist with the bad sense of the word. My _sister,_ ” he emphasizes the word, sounding dangerously defensive, “is proud to be French. France is neither a land for her, nor the people She beholds. France is an idea, a tomb for all those who have fought for freedom but have not really died in the past centuries. France is Liberty, France is Revolution!”

The bookseller shrugs his shoulders. “Tell your _sister_ that she’s sweet and I would love to buy her a drink someday, but France is mostly a boisterous parade of pretentious crap.”

Enjolras looks scandalized. “How can you speak like that? It’s your home-country!”

“Which I’m not obliged to adore unconditionally,” his voice comes out bitter. “France, the land of Liberty, the land of Revolution,” he mimics, “Paris, the city of Light, and Love and Audrey Hepburn and the Roaring ‘20s! Yet underneath all of these, in the 21st century, racism prevails in so many ways, clochards sleep in metro stations when it snows…”

Enjolras’ voice comes out bold and sharp, as if he’s giving a speech during a rally, he almost hits the counter with his palm. “It’s _our_ job to change things, to help the oppressed and those who suffer, to make world and our _land_ a better place…”

Grantaire is leaning lazily against the wall. “Does your sister say that too?” he asks sarcastically.

The silence that falls is palpable until Enjolras speaks quietly. “You don’t believe in change?”

“I don’t believe in anything.”

“Then I don’t see a reason for this conversation to continue.” Enjolras turns around to leave.

“You’ve forgotten your cupcakes!”

He grabs the box and literally bursts outside the room, his cheeks flushed violently and his pulse throbbing.

*

“That’s _Jehan’s bookshop_! I can’t believe you went without me! I’ve been begging for you to come for literally _ages_!”

Courfeyrac is almost in hysterics, looking woefully betrayed even though he seems like he doesn’t really mind his delicious cupcake.

“I didn’t know that was it when I got in,” Enjolras takes a bite of his tricolor biscuits, positively sure that he has never tasted anything more perfect in his life.

“You can’t go around like that and buy fuckin’ _cupcakes_ without inviting me to see the love of my _life…”_

“Courfeyrac…”

“Absolutely unacceptable…”

“COURFEYRAC!”

“Yes?”

“I’m not going again.”

*

Except that he is.

It’s just that he hasn’t slept for nights and he’s having an exam in two hours and he desperately needs a coffee or else he’ll pass out on his desk, but he can’t possibly go to a Starbucks because if something has remained to that corrupted system is principles and Enjolras _does_ have them, and all the other cafés around him seem crowded with early summer tourists.

That bookshop is different, personal, it is a punch right in the guts of capitalism and despite an annoying employee Enjolras can’t help but love every single thing about it.

The bell of the door is ringing when he opens the door and his pulse starts racing, because of all those books and probably the lack of caffeine in his body and, ignoring the customers browsing through the books, he walks straight to the coffee room.

There are many more clients today, reading books and chattering quietly, and he takes a seat in the only empty table. His eyes instinctively search behind the counter but the only person he can see serving is a dark-haired girl. He doesn’t know whether he’s relieved or not.

The girl arrives to his table, startling him with wiping it with a rag rather neurotically. “Morning,” she says hoarsely, giving him a big smile. “Do you by any chance happen to have a sister? Because you fill the description of Goldilocks, and if you are the golden Apollo then we have a special menu for you today, including coffee and patriotic pancakes and our barista for dessert!”

Enjolras feels his cheeks burning violently from the second she mentions his non-existent sister but when she finishes her sentence he’s absolutely dumbstruck. He’s ready to throw himself up and disappear from that madhouse, but just then a wild dark-haired barista slash bookseller shows up from nowhere and rushes to his table. “I’m sorry,” he croaks quickly. “For whatever ‘Ponine might have said…” The girl named ‘Ponine elbows him out of the way, that smile never leaving her face. “Oh, I said nothing bad, Grantaire! Blondie over here was just telling me a story about his sister!”

 _Blondie_ cannot take any more of these offensive nicknames and ridiculous, obviously drunken behaviors, and he tries to stand up again but the girl pushes his shoulders back in the chair.

“She drunk a dozen of beers last night,” Grantaire almost begs with his bright blue eyes, “Just… she doesn’t know what she’s saying…”

Enjolras is terribly frustrated but he desperately needs a coffee, and when the girl shuts Grantaire’s mouth with her palm, making the blonde wonder if they’re boyfriend and girlfriend or something, he gives in and replies to her that he wants just a coffee, thank you very much, and she pretends to be scribbling something in a notepad before disappearing behind the counter and plays Punch-U-Punch-Me with Grantaire, which is highly unprofessional if you want his opinion, but he needs that coffee badly enough not to leave.

It’s Grantaire who serves him his coffee while she stares at them behind the counter with an amused look on her face, pretending to be preparing a cup of herbal tea for a customer. His blue eyes are looking genuinely apologetic when he places the cup on the table, and Enjolras can swear that his usual look of sarcasm has left his face. “Look, Apollo,” he mutters, shushing Enjolras when he tries to protest for his nickname, “Éponine has a weird sense of humor. I mean, she’s weird in every way. But she’s cool. Don’t stop coming here because of her… or of me. You must meet Jehan and Cosette. They’re such angels and they’ll be devastated if you abandon their lovechild of a bookshop.”

Enjolras can’t help but admire the tenderness in the man’s voice when he speaks of his friends, and completely unconsciously, he finds himself nodding. “It’s okay,” he says, rather puzzled. “Just… let me drink my coffee, I have an exam in approximately eighty nine minutes.”

And then the strangest thing happens. The man named Grantaire –only now he finally has the opportunity to think of that name and replay it in his ears, realizing that it suits the man- smiles.

It’s not a sarcastic smile. It’s a genuine _thank you_ smile, like one of those you give to people you are fond of, and Enjolras has not been used in people shamelessly giving him smiles so he immediately decides to bring his cup to his lips and taste the coffee…

Enjolras knows about coffees. He has a PhD in staying awake, he knows exactly which coffee will keep him up, which will make him an overly energetic chipmunk, as Courfeyrac very kindly states it and which will do nothing at all. It’s just that his coffees were never anything extraordinary, at least not as good as Combeferre or Musichetta’s.

This coffee, however…

He has never tasted anything like that in the past. It’s strong and bitter and rich and _wonderful,_ the excellent smell fills his senses and the viscous, warm liquid caresses his tongue tenderly. He could never believe that a cup of coffee would make him feel that way and he hates the fact that it’s made by a bookseller barista who finds pleasure in mocking him and making him feel uncomfortable but all he can think right now is of the cold porcelain between his lips and the flavor which prevails upon his whole fuckin’ being…

Grantaire’s blue eyes that meet with his own behind the counter don’t help at all.

He visits the bookshop again with Courfeyrac, another time with Combeferre, then all three of them go and he meets Cosette as well as Jehan and Feuilly, both of whom happen to show immense interest in activism. He spends hours browsing through all the different titles in the history sections and usually nurses a cup of excellent, warm coffee, even when it’s the end of June and the weather already really hot. There is only one problem.

They argue.

Like, they argue a lot. More than what is considered to be healthy.

Grantaire is horribly cynical, as Enjolras discovers. They cannot seem to agree in anything. Enjolras finds himself even more shocked every time that they discuss a philosophical, social or political matter and his opinions sometimes have him wondering where human kind is actually heading. However he has to admit that, even though he finds them absurd, his arguments are rather well thought and apparently he is extremely well read. His endless rambling which involves several mythological and classical mentions and gives Enjolras headaches, but he can’t help admiring him, or at least his depth of knowledge.

Grantaire prevents him from returning to the bookshop sometimes. It’s sad and pathetic but unfortunately true. That bookshop is a little piece of heaven on Earth –or so Enjolras would say if he was religious- but that annoying man with those blue eyes makes it more-or-less an unbearable hell. He keeps following Enjolras around and messing with his books and then he thinks that with a magical coffee he can make up for everything.

Well, practically he can but that’s a completely different story.

Enjolras stops visiting the bookshop.

*

He misses him.

He doesn’t know how he’s let this happen to him, he doesn’t have the faintest idea about when he started thinking of golden locks and red lips and marble skin every minute of his day, getting distracted from his job and teased by Éponine, probably from the moment he first saw him. He doesn’t know why a man he barely knows who seems to have been born with a stick shoved up his ass and an imaginary sister whose name is probably Patria or something, has taken over his every thought and dream. All that he knows is that he spends the whole night drinking, because he _knows_ he’ll never be worth a God, and then waits breathlessly for the highlight of his day, the time when the man will enter the bookshop, making Grantaire’s heart race madly every time he hears the bell.

He has fucked this up, he knows he has. After all he has a vague ambition in that direction. Most of the time he shows up drunk or with a hangover and he knows that his favorite client hates that, he rambles uncontrollably and shows how unable he is of any kind of faith. He has fucked this up and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Until the fourteenth of July, one of the hottest summer days so long, when Grantaire has an afternoon shift and finds himself crammed between a huffing, sweaty crowd in the metro.

Normally Grantaire loves taking the metro. It’s the most interesting part of his day. He loves resting his head against the cool window pane and watch all the different stations outside, he loves the rhythmical buzzing of the railway, he loves watching people, imagining what lies behind their expressions, their frowned eyebrows or the biting of their lips, their steel eyes as they’re lost in a world trapped between two earphones, wondering what they’re thinking about. When he’s lucky and he finds a seat, he tries to sketch them, though most of the time they notice and absolutely hate the fact that someone captures every flaw that they may have.

Today he absolutely hates every minute. The odors in the wagon are rather unpleasant, to put it politely and he’s covered in sweat. The heat is immense and the green fabric of his t-shirt is sticking uncomfortably on his skin, feeling absolutely disgusting. That, until the metallic voice announces the name of the station: Les Halles.

The last thing he’s expecting to see when the doors open, is Enjolras to be entering the wagon.

He thinks he’s hallucinating because of the heat, and that’s because Enjolras as a God is beautiful, but Enjolras as a _human,_ a sheen of sweat shining on his face and collarbone, a slight frown on his brow as he seems to be hating the weather, a few unruly blond curls plastered on his forehead and his red t-shirt sticking on his torso, _that_ Enjolras is breathtaking.

Not to mention that he’s wearing capris and the sight of his long, strong yet almost feminine legs should under no circumstances make Grantaire feel that flustered.

Enjolras spots him immediately and Grantaire absolutely hates the way the man presses his red lips together, indicating that he’d rather be anywhere else than stuffed in a metro wagon with a drunken, cynical bookseller.

“Hey,” says Grantaire, elbowing his way towards the student, holding anywhere he can so that he can keep his balance.

Enjolras looks positively displeased. “Good afternoon,” he says politely, though in a rather sharp voice.

“Have you finished your exams?”

“Yes, I’m done,” is Enjolras’ only reply, and he opens his mouth, then regrets what he wanted to say and shuts it again. “So?” he finally blurts out. “Anything else you’d like to tell me? Mock my beliefs? Laugh at my face?”

Grantaire’s chest tightens and he knows that his cheeks redden. “I just want to say…” he hears his own hoarse voice saying, “Happy Bastille Day.”

Enjolras seems rather taken aback, and Grantaire forgets how to breathe as the man’s expression softens unexpectedly. “Happy Bastille Day,” he replies slowly, and his voice is gentle, it echoes like the most angelic melody in Grantaire’s ears, and he stands there for what seems like eternity, not replying or doing anything, just savoring in the man’s beautiful features.

And just then, they hear the metallic voice announcing that they have arrived to Châtelet and before they can manage to hold from somewhere, the metro stops unexpectedly, and Grantaire loses his balance, stumbling on Enjolras’ sweaty body.

He can hardly apologize, with his heart pounding madly against his ribs, before Enjolras mumbles a _That’s my stop_ and bursts out on the platform.

Grantaire stares at the red of his t-shirt disappear behind the shut doors.


	4. Talk to me of Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can’t find anyone in the main room so he walks to the fantasy room. Newspapers are sprawled all over the floor and Grantaire is painting some elves on a corner of the wall. Yes, that is the only problem. That Grantaire is painting. Shirtless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem used is 'In Paris with you' by James Fenton.  
> I spent the best six days of my summer in Paris this year. And yes. I miss it. More than what considered to be healthy.

Enjolras returns to the bookshop. Again and again and again. It becomes a daily thing. Grantaire learns to expect him every morning, apart from a few woeful days when the student is obviously too caught up with his activism, giving speeches or organizing protests. He brings notes and books from home, as well as his favorite laptop, and spends hours curled in one of the couches in the main room, writing frantically or browsing through the history and philosophy books, and reading in an admirably fast pace.

Grantaire loves watching him. He loves the way he chews on his lower lip and frowns slightly when he concentrates, he loves the way his serious face lights up when he finds another precious book, he loves the way he starts conversations with the other customers, sharing opinions, suggesting books and debating over the current political situation. Grantaire is an outsider, yet he savors every minute of watching the man. Sometimes he gets so caught up with his work that he forgets to leave, and when the evening comes Grantaire –Éponine, Cosette and Jehan always seem to be busy when it comes to that point- has to tell him they’re closing, startling him and bringing a disappointed shadow on his beautiful face.

Most of the time, Enjolras is sleep deprived. It’s not that he suffers from insomnia. He just invests too much money in Grantaire’s excellent coffee –and sometimes it’s a treat from Jehan and Cosette too- and he has so many things to finish during the night. He has come to the conclusion that he can function with too little sleep and he is quite proud of the fact.

One pleasantly cool, late July night, after Jehan has gone out on a date with Courfeyrac and the girls have finished cleaning the coffee room and returned home, Grantaire enters the main room only to find Enjolras sprawled upon the couch with Voltaire’s _Candide_ resting on his chest which is rising and falling steadily, his eyes shut, breathing peacefully through parted lips. The brunet’s breath hitches on his throat. He’s resting his head on his hands, golden locks spread upon the red fabric of the couch, and he looks so different from the serious revolutionary Grantaire always argues with.

He looks fuckin’ _adorable._

Grantaire wants to touch him, to run his fingers through those gorgeous curls, to caress his smooth cheek, to place a kiss on his forehead and watch him sleep in a painfully creepy way but he can’t. He knows he can’t. If Enjolras wakes up and finds out he’ll have him guillotined with chopsticks… or something like that. Grantaire shudders in fear. He doesn’t even want to think of angering the mighty Apollo.

He walks closer and clears his throat. “Um… Apollo?” he murmurs hesitantly. “Wake up.”

Enjolras only leaves a small groan and does not stir at all. Grantaire thinks that the sweetness is going to give him diabetes. Feeling rather desperate, he pokes the sleeping man’s shoulder. “It’s time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty!”

Enjolras finally stirs like a sleeping cat and leaves a whimper, which is downright blackmailing, as Grantaire most definitely cannot resist such a sound.

He remembers what Cosette always says about Jehan.

 _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus_.

*

Enjolras wakes up with that pleasant, fuzzy feeling of warmth that comes after a good night’s sleep, better than what he’s had for ages. It takes a while for him to stretch like a cat and slide an eyelid open, before he realizes that he’s not in his bed.

He’s not in any kind of bed, for that matter.

He is on a red couch in what looks like a bookshop, and he can hear people talking and walking and turning pages around him. He soon finds out the reason for which he is covered in sweat: the green blanket he apparently is covered with did an excellent job with the night’s Paris chill, but stopped being a good idea ever since the summer morning arrived.

He quickly throws himself up, horribly ashamed for having made a sight of himself, but apparently no customer seems to care for the fact that he was asleep in the middle of a bookshop.

Before he manages to rub his eyes, Jehan has already arrived in a pair of _short_ purple shorts and a flowy yellow tank top with ice creams on it. He’s holding a glass of cold coffee which is exactly what he needs right now, as well as a plate with what seems to be a fresh croissant with pistachio ice cream on top. As he accepts his breakfast thankfully from the smiling man, he realizes why Courfeyrac calls his boyfriend an angel.

“Is Grantaire here?” he asks casually, before Jehan leaves to help some customers in the literature section.

“He has the day off,” chimes the other man, and Enjolras knows that, even if he hates the term, he is _royally_ fucked.

*****

“Oh my gosh you _slept_ with him!”

“Courfeyrac, calm down, listen to me…”

“How can you tell me to _calm the fuck down_?”

“Courfeyrac…”

“You fuckin’ _slept with him!_ ”

“I did not…”

“You got LAID!”

“COURFEYRAC!”

“Our baby boy is growing up!”

“I DID NOT SLEEP WITH A MAN WHO DOES NOT BELIEVE IN OUR CAUSE, I FELL ASLEEP ON THE FUCKIN’ COUCH AND HE LET ME THERE AND YOU CAN ASK YOUR BOYFRIEND IF YOU DO NOT BELIEVE ME!”

“COMBEFERRE HE’S YELLING AT ME!”

“Calm down, kids, you will both have ice cream if you try to behave.”

*

August has arrived and brought unbearable heat and humidity with it. Jehan and Courfeyrac will not let anything interfere with their mood. They won’t even spend Saturday morning when Jehan has the day off in an air-conditioned room, after all they already spend the whole night in the same _room_ , in various states of undress, lying in bed with their limbs tangled together in the sheets. Sometimes Courfeyrac wakes up in the middle of the night and tries to take pictures of his lover in the moonlight, his hair dishevelled upon the pillow and his face peaceful and angelic, some others Jehan wakes up and waxes poetic while staring at his partner’s smiling, sleeping form. But not on Saturday morning, when they’re already cycling by the side of the Seine, not caring for the Sun which is burning every inch of exposed skin. Paris has so many scents in the warm months, but the most precious one of the newly watered grass at le Jardin du Luxembourg. Cosette and Marius are always there when they don’t have classes or work. It is where they met and Courfeyrac always used to tease him about it; for him the garden was a place full of jean shorts and shirtless dudes sunbathing. But now he knows. He knows it in the way he can finally smell the flowers and tell the difference between each species, thanks to Jehan. He knows it in the way he can finally shut his eyes and enjoy the sun because he doesn’t need to stare anymore, he can only smell, his lover’s flowery shampoo on his ginger hair as they lie on the grass, gardenia on his shirt and jasmine on the crook of his pale throat as he nuzzles his face in every hollow, and it’s them who are wearing shorts now, a pair of Hawaiian and a pair of floral denim cut-offs, and there are one or two grandmothers who smile at them adoringly and make Jehan blush, it’s them who appreciate the beauty in the couple, more than younger homophobes who still unfortunately exist. It smells of the framboise ice cream they have on their noses and chins, of the thé au pomme vert they carry in a thermos and small tartes aux abricots, of the Bleu de Chanel on his Hawaiian shirt, and they smile blissfully against each other’s shoulders as they lie there or sit on a bench, their legs tangled together, reading to each other.  
  
Jehan always prefers the shadow but Courfeyrac never agrees. Today he’s resting on his elbows, his shirt unbuttoned, gaining a tan on his chest, smiling underneath his heart sunglasses while Jehan is lying on the grass, white spots of sun lotion on his pale, freckled skin, resting his head on his boyfriend’s lap while reading Charlotte Bronte. They’re sharing cold lemonade and it’s pure bliss. Courfeyrac can’t stop capturing everything in his Polaroid, from their heart and cat-eye sunglasses and their bare feet to a daisy on Jehan’s ear and their buckets of frozen yogurt, resulting to Jehan teasingly calling him a hipster until they end up tackling each other to a violent tickling fight.  
  
Courfeyrac feels like they were born to be together. For once he does not feel the urge to be adventurous with more than one person, simply because his life has never been more interesting than it is with the little poet’s company. Sometimes he looks at his friends and feels genuinely sorry that they don’t feel the same way, unable to understand that they might not need it right now and he is determined to do his best to put his matchmaking skills into action.  
  
“Do you think Grantaire is fucking Enjolras?” he asks casually.  
  
If one saw Jehan for the first time, he’d figure out that the quiet, shy poet would feel quite shocked and uncomfortable at such a conversation involving their friends, but Courfeyrac knew his boyfriend well enough to not expect any signs of blushing or choking on his lemonade.  
  
“I don’t think he is,” the ginger man mutters absent-mindedly. “But it’s only a matter of time.”  
  
“Do you think we should help?”  
  
“I simply think that our plans to leave on vacation will help more people relax than just us.  
  
Courfeyrac just grins mischievously. He can’t wait.

*

The bookshop never has much work during August. Most of the Parisians have left on vacation and very few tourists have heard of **Librairie des Abesses.** It’s not a popular, well-advertised bookshop and its appearance often deceives. That has always meant that one person could always cope with the whole shop for at least two weeks, allowing the others to enjoy their own vacation. Last year it had been Éponine who had to stay here to look after Gavroche, after her parents’ court was over and they ended up in jail. She took the boy with her every day and went for five days to the sea with Grantaire when the others returned and Feuilly and Jehan could babysit her brother.  
  
This year, Éponine has finally agreed to follow Jehan, Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Bahorel on holidays. Feuilly and she don’t have the money, but for once their friends managed to convince them to share their expenses. Cosette and Marius are staying at her father’s country house, as for Combeferre, he’s visiting his family at the North. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta have booked their flight for Africa, for Musichetta’s family house, and Joly is doing his best to vaccinate them for every single exotic disease out there.  
  
It’s not that Enjolras does not have the money to leave the city. It’s not that he does not have any place to go either. He already has invitations both from Courfeyrac and Jehan and from Combeferre’s family. He has never managed to stay back in the past, Courfeyrac has even tied him up –yes, _literally-_ and forced him to spend hours under the shade of an umbrella, fully clothed in the beach with a miserable expression on his face and his laptop on his knees.  
  
However this year, when he announced that he was going to stay here and catch up with some work, relax and read, his friends remained so calm and consented immediately, to the point that he even felt afraid of finding a trap behind all that or that they had all contracted some tropical fever Joly keeps talking about.  
  
When the day comes and everyone is ready to go –Feuilly trying to smoke a cigarette in peace before Bahorel attacks him with the sun lotion, leaving a war growl and Courfeyrac with Jehan trying to fit a huge inflatable whale in the car-, Combeferre repeats for the tenth time that Enjolras _must not forget to eat at least three meals per day,_ and pulls him into a brotherly hug. “Grantaire has no money to go on vacation and he’s staying at the bookshop,” he whispers, “it will both do you good to hang out every now and then.” Enjolras groans. “I’m serious,” Combeferre pulls away and looks at him piercingly behind his spectacles. “Don’t leave the poor man alone during the summer. And try not to strangle each other in our absence.”  
  
It’s true that Enjolras tries to convince everybody that there’s no need to worry for that because he most definitely will not be seeing annoying, cynical Grantaire, but apparently it’s even harder to convince himself. It’s obvious that he hates how they always fight, those raised eyebrows and sarcastic smiles get on his nerves, but he has to admit that his arguments have been getting stronger and stronger ever since he started arguing with Grantaire, all this has actually been helping him in the way he writes his speeches, Grantaire and his faithfulness give him _inspiration,_ in some peculiar way.  
  
He tries hard to stay at home, to study and read and make plans for their group’s actions when his friends get back, but their air-conditioning is broken and he’s sweating to death. He’s feeling so worn because of the heat that he can hardly move in order to cook something, and for a change he’s _starving._  
  
Inevitably he ends up to the bookshop once again. When he steps inside, dreaming of pastries and coffee, the cold air of the air conditioning hits him and he thinks he’s in heaven. That, until he decides that he most definitely is in hell.  
  
He can’t find anyone in the main room so he walks to the fantasy room. Newspapers are sprawled all over the floor and Grantaire is painting some elves on a corner of the wall. Yes, that is the only problem. That Grantaire is painting. _Shirtless.  
  
_ Enjolras gulps as his heart rate accelerates immediately, finding himself absolutely helpless before the sight of the other man, wild, dark curls all over his face, slightly tanned skin shining underneath a thin layer of sweat and paint stains, defined shoulder blades, the curve of his lower back and hips as he watches from behind, and then Grantaire turns around and Enjolras takes a glimpse of his strong arms as he holds the paintbrush, a firm torso with just the _right_ amount of dark, curly hair, and more hair trailing down his flat abdomen and leading to the south. What is he staring at? God _what is happening to him?  
  
_ “ _Hey!_ Apollo! Have you been hearing a single word I’m saying? Did you get a heat stroke?” Grantaire is raising an eyebrow, looking rather confused. _God he has been staring._

“Your elves,” Enjolras blurts out stupidly. “They’re really, um… really nice.”

“Why thank you,” Grantaire smiles teasingly. “If you’re finished complimenting my masterpieces, will you now kindly answer my question?”  
  
Enjolras can feel that he’s blushing dangerously. “Can you please repeat it? I got a little dizzy from the sun.”

“Right. I was saying that you look ready to collapse now that Combeferre is not here to babysit you, and wondering whether you’d like anything to eat.”

Enjolras’ stomach has been growling the whole morning and unfortunately he doesn’t know whether some pastries will be enough. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” he snaps rather irritably, “I don’t need anyone to babysit me.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Charming. Now if you’ll just be easy and follow me to the kitchen…”

Enjolras takes a seat on one of the tables in the coffee room while Grantaire disappears behind the counter in the small kitchen. He occupies himself with a book that Jehan has probably forgotten on that table, as it is filled with poems, until a delicious scent which most definitely is not sweet catches his attention. He raises his head and spots Grantaire walk towards him, still shirtless, with a plate full of omelette. “Here, help yourself. Combeferre will have my head if I let you starve.”

Enjolras does not remember ever feeling more grateful towards the man and he mutters an incoherent thanks before starting to eat like a starved, wild animal. Grantaire takes a chair beside him and stares rather bemused. While expecting him to finish his food, he takes the book in his hands and opens it. “I didn’t know you read poetry,” he chuckles.

“Jehan’s,” mumbles Enjolras with his mouth full.

Grantaire focuses his eyes on the page and starts reading aloud. “Don’t talk to me of love, I’ve had an earful. And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two.” He clears his throat before continuing. “I’m one of your talking wounded. I’m a hostage. I’m maroonded. But I’m in Paris with you.”

This catches Enjolras’ attention who has already finished his omelette and is looking up. “Give it to me,” he mutters, and narrows his eyes as he reads aloud. “Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre, if we say sod off to the Notre Dame…? Doing this and that…? What is this crap? Does Jehan read poetry written by horny tourists?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and takes the book from Enjolras’ hands. “I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do...” He seems rather flushed but he doesn’t seem able to stop reading. “I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth…” He raises his eyes and they’re so fuckin’ blue and his lips are dry and half parted, his voice low and hoarse as he continues without really looking at the book. “I’m in Paris with… all points south…” They don’t speak as he leaves the book on the table. “I don’t really read poetry but this was… stunning.”

Enjolras clears his throat and picks on his remaining omelette with his fork, looking rather unwilling to finish it. “I wouldn’t exactly call it stunning.”

“That’s alright, Apollo,” smiles Grantaire bitterly. “I never expected us to agree, especially when it comes to art.”

Enjolras hides the book in his pocket and takes it with him. He spends the night reading it.

*

“You book thief!” Grantaire narrows his eyes accusingly the next time he sees him, and it takes Enjolras a while to realize that the dark-haired man is laughing.

Enjolras comes again and again, he studies and reads and Grantaire occasionally cooks for the both of them. It’s not like they’re _friends,_ Grantaire is not trying to fool himself. Enjolras’ friends are all away and he really loves the bookshop, that’s all. But that’s alright. It’s really alright. He’s already grateful for being able to watch the man work, concentrated, sometimes calm some others passionate, looking at all those different expressions, helping him in every way that he can while being distant and quiet… well, not _always_ quiet.

They argue less now, but Enjolras seems to be doing an excellent job in always ignoring Grantaire’s presence and that’s the main reason that the bookseller feels so surprised when one day Enjolras gets up and walks towards him. His words almost cause him to fall from the ladder he is climbed on, organizing some language textbooks.

“Listen, I’m sorry you’re stuck here and not with your friends. I was wondering whether you’d like us to go out one day… if of course you can close the bookshop, and have a tour around Paris.”

Grantaire looks slightly offended, and the truth is that he feels so as well. “I don’t want your pity, Apollo. You don’t have to bear with my insufferable presence for a day just because Cosette asked you.”

Enjolras lets a small sigh and runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s not pity and Cosette asked nothing of me. I… I feel alone too. It wouldn’t be too bad if we tried to get out for a while…”

“Who are you and what have you done to Enjolras?”

“Bad idea anyway. Forget it.”

Grantaire almost trips over at his attempt to jump off the ladder. “No, I was kidding. I… I’ll come with you. If you want me, of course.” He can feel his heart pounding madly in his chest. He must calm down. It’s nothing but sheer pity. Sometimes it’s obvious that Enjolras cannot even stand him. Grantaire is just too desperate for every moment they spent together to say no a second time.

They meet on Sunday morning and Grantaire can’t help but notice how gorgeous Enjolras looks in the sunlight, the sun reflecting on his halo of golden hair, wearing khaki shorts and that red t-shirt which seems to be his favourite. They’re pretty awkward in the beginning, and Grantaire doesn’t dare to even think of what they’re doing as a date. It hurts a little as this must be Grantaire’s greater fantasy, but that’s okay. He’s used in things hurting ever since he met Enjolras and whiskey has always been kind with him. But soon he realizes that the blonde has actually put effort into this, he’s prepared a plan for the day. Paris is wonderful in the summer. The gardens, the glorious monuments and the Haussmann buildings seem to show a completely different portrait of themselves in the sunlight. The traffic in the streets is not that crazy, now that the Parisians are leaving the city in thousands, and the Seine is not melancholic anymore, it has a different story to tell. The cafés and the brasseries are full with people, the Opera Garnier is playing La Sylphide and all the cinemas Despicable Me 2, the Parisians are leaning on their small balconies, smoking and gossiping on the phone in huge t-shirts and silk robes and summer dresses. They visit the Louvre first and that’s a very bad idea as their feet are already aching after a couple of hours and they have hardly seen one tenth of the museum. They’ve spent half of the time arguing, causing guards to scold them at least three times, and they both decide it’d be a good idea to head at the Orsay, where Enjolras doesn’t even try to show some interest while Grantaire feels ecstatic, knowing by heart the place of every single painting. Their shoulders brush accidentally all the time while they walk, and there are so many times when he’s certain that he’ll forget how to breathe. Grantaire insists on visiting the Eiffel Tower just for pissing Enjolras off and receives a lecture of the fact that they’re not tourists and Paris has all those interesting places to visit, but Grantaire is still shocked when after that, Enjolras agrees in visiting Place de Trocadero for a while, just for the sake of doing everything that spontaneously comes to their minds and Grantaire simply loves that side of the young student, the way they browse through the vintage books, maps and posters on the stashes in the stands by the Seine and he laughs at his _The guy who jumped from the Pont-Neuf was In Seine_ pun, his face lights up and they buy ice cream –they end up fighting and having chocolate all over their noses and chins and it’s so cliché that Grantaire thinks he’s dreaming. Enjolras spends hours stating historical facts for every single spot they pass and Grantaire rolls his eyes, until they reach the Notre Dame where the brunet starts talking about his favourite novel and for once, captures Enjolras’ whole attention.

It’s late in the afternoon when they take the metro and get off on the Abesses station before taking the railroad to the hill of Montmartre.

They walk by the Sacre Coeur and then through all the street artists that draw portraits for the tourists. They get downright hysteric when they see Enjolras’ whimsical beauty, and desperately try to have him pose for them, stepping in front of them and grabbing their arms. Enjolras refuses sternly.

“Don’t worry Dorian, I won’t call you vain or sinister if you succumb to their pleas and pose for your portrait,” teases Grantaire.

“I just don’t see a reason in that,” mutters a tired Enjolras. “Especially when I could ask you to draw my portrait if I ever wanted.”

Grantaire stops, dead shocked in the middle of the crowd of tourists, between the souvenir shops, and it takes a while for Enjolras to realize. “What happened?”

“I don’t think I could ever draw you,” Grantaire laughs dryly, feeling a lump on his throat.

“You draw very well, if that’s your worry,” Enjolras shrugs his shoulders. “But I haven’t asked you to, did I?” he smiles gently, and Grantaire can do nothing but nod.

His heart starts racing. Of course. Why would Enjolras want his portrait done by him?

He makes a mental note to never leave his sketchbook lie around the bookshop.


	5. Let's do it, let's fall in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She bites her bottom lip as if suddenly she’s scared. “It was a date, wasn’t it?” she asks hesitantly. He makes a step closer to her, giving her the chance to reach for his messy, damp hair. He runs his fingers through the straight sandy brown tufts.
> 
> “Last time I checked,” the corners of his lips upturn slightly. “This indeed was a date.”
> 
> “That means you can kiss me?” she asks breathlessly, unconsciously tiptoeing on her boots.
> 
> The smiles does not leave his face as he finally cups her face and her skin it’s cold, colder than he’d imagined. “If it's alright with you, I believe that yes, I definitely can kiss you,” he replies hoarsely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is drunk. And stupid. And Enjolras is oblivious. But fluff and kittens are coming in the next chapter, so I'm sorry for the little angst in a story that is supposed to be all cupcakes and unicorns.  
> I love the rain, in case you haven't noticed. But Greece doesn't seem to do my the favor (but I'm absolutely ecstatic because today they arrested the members of the neonazist party DING DONG THE WITCH IS DEAD!!!)

His friends return in Paris on the last week of August. Feuilly is awfully sunburnt, his skin red and peeling, and a tanned Bahorel cannot stop making fun of him. Éponine has acquired a tan herself and seems particularly relaxed and refreshed, even though Gavroche has clearly exhausted the fuck out of her. Jehan’s ginger hair is highlighted by the sun and wavy and he looks absolutely gorgeous and Courfeyrac cannot stop showing them pictures: Gavroche on Feuilly’s shoulders in the sea looking absolutely satanic, on the exact second before attacking a clueless Éponine, pretending to be a shark. Courfeyrac in his heart sunglasses obviously drunk, doing some weird dance with Gavroche while Jehan smiles in his boyfriend’s Hawaiian shirts which are huge for him, making the peace sign with his fingers. Bahorel surrounded by half a dozen of half-naked girls. Bahorel winking on the inflatable whale. Jehan in various states of undress, flushed cheeks, savage expression and sex hair between the sheets. Grantaire is not sure whether he really wants to see the rest of the pictures now.

They have hundreds of stories to tell them and Grantaire is happy to catch up while he informs them on everything extraordinary which has happened in the bookshop, you know, a total of four Japanese tourists searching for city guides, a few almost passed-out Americans seeking for air-conditioning and their five consistent French customers, those who already have _their_ table in the coffee room and _their_ spot on the beds in the poetry room.

It doesn’t take long for autumn to arrive. Autumn seems to be a season that suits Paris very well, but Grantaire can’t really deal with it. The children that fill the bookshop, searching for school books remind him of his own school years he will never miss at all and it’s only depressing. He spends hours staring outside the window at the fallen, yellow leaves to the point that Jehan starts wondering whether he’s started writing poetry and Éponine whether he’s stoned.

The people of Paris return to the city and catch up with their routines again. The first rain follows the arrival of September and finds Grantaire drunk, trying to gather the chairs and clean the tables and count the earnings of the day before closing. Jehan, Éponine and Cosette all have somewhere to be right now, even if that means taking care of a sugar-high ten year old and he’s curled on a couch with _The Great Gatsby_ on his lap, listening to the soundtrack of _Midnight in Paris_ and nursing a bottle of tequila. The gentle notes of jazz guitar are filling the room with an unwanted serenity that dulls and numbs him rather unpleasantly. His sketchbook is abandoned on the sofa by his side in the way his inspiration and skills seemed to abandon _him_ today, and his head is already spinning slightly in the dim light, following the rhythm of the raindrops tapping the window.

He feels lucky to be inside right now. It’s true that he doesn’t really like autumn because of the sense of being trapped in an emotional pattern and cheering up with summer breaks of any sort, only to find out you can never get out and start differently. Your life always seems to change when the Sun prevails upon the sky, only to realize you’re always the same person being fooled and tricked and doomed to continue. He doesn’t like autumn. But the rain he does love.

Jehan finds him crazy. The poet gets terribly depressed with grey skies. Grantaire gets depressed too, but in an entirely different way; it is salvation for him, he _needs_ it even if it makes him feel miserable and twisted, he needs the dull sound of the rain and the weeping of the guitar and the book he’s read four times on his lap and the cold bottle between his knees. He faintly remembers of the time when _he_ used to play the guitar and he wonders bitterly whether he’d be able to play a song to save his life at the moment. 

He is startled by the sound of the bell and he turns his eyes to the door, only to see a wet Enjolras standing there, soaked to the bone, dark blonde tendrils of hair plastered on his forehead and his long-sleeve shirt sticking on his torso, dripping on a small lake on the wooden floor.

He throws himself up and tatters towards him. “Did you have a fuckin’ _shower_ Apollo?” he slurs.

“You could try it too sometimes,” replies Enjolras snarkily, pulling the soaked fabric away from his skin. “I needed to wait here for the rain to stop before I return home, but I didn’t know you were alone. I’m sorry.”

Grantaire shakes his head. He is used in being drunk, more than anyone else he knows, which means that he still has the ability to think and react in certain situations. Being drunk though may have helped him pull his grey V-neck sweater off his shoulders without much thinking, and remain in a black fit sleeveless top. “No need to apologize. You know that I already consider your presence near me a privilege,” he says, handing his sweater to him. “You need to change. If you stay in wet clothes you’re going to catch a cold and then it will be highly unlikely for Combeferre to let you overthrow the government.”

Enjolras sighs deeply and the dim light of the antique rusty chandelier almost hides a flush that covers his face. “Thanks,” he mutters, finally accepting his sweater. Grantaire should have expected for Enjolras to pull his wet shirt off his head, blushing violently during the process, he should have been prepared because that is the logical order of things, people take their wet clothes off before wearing drier ones, his heart should not start pounding madly against his ribcage at the sight of the revolutionary’s slender, pale torso, or his arms stretched over his head and his peeking hipbones leading in the waistband of his red –of fuckin’ _course-_ boxers that is visible over his tight jeans. But the man covers his statuesque body way too soon with Grantaire’s grey sweater, his collarbones shining defined from the V-neck, the wool much more loose than it is on Grantaire himself, the faint shade bringing out the gold his drying, already formed curls even more. And Grantaire feels drunk with alcohol and intoxicated with the grace and beauty that no human can bear and he doesn’t function properly, not anymore, so that when Enjolras asks him for a towel it takes a while for him to understand and cooperate.

When he returns with a floral dish towel from the kitchen –the best he could find-, it takes a while for his eyes to get used to the dimly lighted room, and a little more for his drunken mind to accept what he’s seeing. He can’t believe what’s happening, he can’t _afford_ to, it’s too horrible, too unfortunate, it must be a hallucination or a lie but it isn’t, Enjolras is holding his sketchbook in his hands, his _own_ sketchbook and is staring at his sketches, at curves and shadows, necks of a swan, feet of a woman, hair made of sunrays and lips made of cherries, sketches of marble statues and…

“Grantaire,” his voice seems distant, muffled, like he’s speaking behind a glass window and it’s still a lie, Grantaire can’t believe it just yet but the voice continues, “is that… me?”

His hand reaches for the sketchbook and grabs it before he can think about it, startling Enjolras immediately. He doesn’t feel sorry for the puzzled man, he deserves it, he deserves every punishment for invading in something so intimate and personal yet Grantaire could never punish him, not when he _loves him_ so much that it hurts, so much that he grows to hate him. “Who gave you the right?” he hisses. “Who do you think you are?”

“Grantaire, I’m sorry…”

“You think you own the world, you think you can meddle with everything you want, just because you have a merry little band of loyal followers...”

The blonde presses his lips to a thin line, not looking sorry or startled anymore, but instead completely offended. “My friends are not _followers…_ ”

“That’s alright,” Snaps Grantaire. “You’ll never need to care for people’s _emotions,_ you don’t do emotions, you just force them to be saved without…”

Enjolras tries to reach for him and touch his elbow. “Oh God you’re drunk, aren’t you? You don’t know what you’re saying,” Grantaire pulls back. “I hate it when you’re drunk.”

“Oh you _hate it!”_ slurs Grantaire. “Of course you do. Not all of us can always get by being perfectly sober, Apollo…”

“If only you’d _try…”_

“I don’t want to try and be saved. I don’t _want_ to be your fuckin’ cause…”

“You’re drunk,” Enjolras is looking absolutely furious right now. “It’s disgusting.”

“Then leave.”

“I’m leaving.”

And he does, slamming the door behind him and disappearing in the rain with Grantaire’s sweater, leaving the drunk man staring at his direction with a dull expression, trying to catch his breath with his fingers wrapped tightly around the bottle.

*

“Have you noticed Grantaire’s bad mood?”

“Grantaire’s mood _always_ seems to be crappy.”

“It’s just… He seems worse today. And he has clearly been drinking. He didn’t return to the flat. Did he come to yours?"

“…No. No, he didn’t come to mine.”

“Maybe it’s the rain.”

“ _Heeere_ comes the mean old fuckin’ rain again! The rain is _great,_ Jehan, don’t you prefer it from being roasted and sweating like a horse in summer? Only you artists get so emotional!”

Jehan shrugs his shoulders, eyeing Grantaire suspiciously one last time behind the Harry Potter shelves. His friend is obviously hungover, his wild curls unwashed and his cheeks raw and scruffy. There are dark circles under his eyes and he wonders if something has happened with Enjolras. Because it obviously is about Enjolras.

They hear the ring on the door and look at each other. “Will you go?” asks Jehan, fixing a newly-arrived pile of _The tales of Beedle the Bard._ Éponine nods, “I’ll get it.”

Of course. It’s The Dude. The Potter-Granger lovechild with the glasses and his nose always buried in a book. She should have expected him to show up after vacation sooner or later. He clearly loves the bookshop yet he hasn’t appeared for over a month. He looks breathless, as if he has been running, his straight, brown hair is ruffled and his thick glasses slightly misplaced. She has missed him and she can hardly hold back a smile. She throws his arms around him because that’s what you do to friends, or to friends-of-friends, when you haven’t seen them for so long, but apparently it takes him by surprise and it takes a while for him to hug her back. She mentally notes that he smells faintly of wood, of soap and of the _sea_ today, as if the nostalgic scent of a summer that left long ago is still lingering upon him. “It’s very nice to see you again,” he smiles when they pull away, and God he’s _tanned,_ even more than Courfeyrac and Grantaire, and it contrasts fiercely with his crisp light blue shirt. “Did you enjoy your trip?”

She shrugs. “It was good. I mean, apart from the moments when Courfeyrac and Jehan decided there wasn’t _enough_ PDA in the air, or those when Bahorel and Gavroche decided there wasn’t enough salted water in our lungs already.”

“Gavroche is your brother, right?”

“Inevitably.” Awkward silence. “How was your own trip?”

He smiles softly. “Peaceful. You know, family, three small sisters trying to initiate me to the simple pleasures of being a Transexual Transvestite from Transylvania…” he probably notices her raised eyebrow, “I mean, you know. Trying to dress me like a girl with glittery makeup and all and then giving me royal titles in which Enjolras would be terribly opposed,” he smiles as she laughs heartily, “a mother who keeps asking me if I have met a nice girl and when she’ll meet her grandchildren…” Éponine flinches in horror. “I know,” he stares apologetically, “but I love them. They’re very kind people… Unlike Enjolras’ family… Sorry that got too far.”

She waves her hand. “Nah, don’t worry. Very talkative today, aren’t you, O quiet one?” she chuckles lightly. “Is this some sort of flattery trick for me to allow you sit on your piano? Because you know you are always more than welcome to enchant us all with your skills?”

“Actually,” he takes a deep breath. “I might have come here… for you.”

Right. Combeferre, king of subtle. That did escalate rather quickly.

“Enlighten me,” she grins, trying to sound casual, but convinced her rapid heartbeat will give her away because she might –rather unfortunately- be eternally in love with her best friend’s boyfriend –who also happens to be of the Pontmercying kind- but she most definitely isn’t used to dudes in Mole-huge glasses walking around as if he’s riding his white fuckin’ horse or something like that, _speaking_ like a horse or a rider or whatever too, and being so painfully straightforward like he knows what he wants when _she_ doesn’t know what he wants or even what _she_ wants.

He looks ashamed and that’s wrong because Combeferre definitely never looks ashamed, he’s the one who always has the right thing to say and he _rambles,_ oh but can he get any more _surreal_? “I’m sorry… Damn, this probably sounded… I just… I’ve met everybody else, here and I feel like I haven’t had the chance to get to know you well enough and it’s unfair… and I was wondering whether you’d like to have some coffee or tea and a movie, or only a movie if you’d like, or lunch and a movie, or lunch and drink… oh never mind.” He rubs his temple with his palm and gives her a small smile. “I fucked this up, didn’t I?” and it’s even more surreal to hear him talk like that, and with that smile of the child who just stole the cookie from the jar, _shouldn’t he be illegal?_

“I finish work at six tomorrow,” she grins encouragingly, “pick me up?”

“Yes,” he nods in a relieved, collected manner, which reminds her much more of good, old Combeferre. “That would be very nice.”

And with that, he can finally grab a book or two and retreat to his favorite piano, after of course ordering a cup of hot praline chocolate.

*

The rain has finally stopped and he can only feel thankful for the fact, as it took half an hour for Courfeyrac to choose his outfit –grey-blue V-neck sweater with brown chinos and oxfords, he could have chosen the same himself, thank you very much- and it will be quite a pity if a downpour soaks him to the bone.

He doesn’t know what made him do that. He also cannot explain that peculiar attraction he feels towards the tired, thin girl from the bookshop. It’s not that they have spent much time together, four or five evenings more or less, half of which she spent running around helping customers and he spent with his face buried into a huge, dusty book. It’s not that she’s what would be considered to be pretty either, at least not in social standards terms –to which he always says a huge _fuck off_ anyway- but there’s something mysterious about her, something that invites him to find out more about her life, her personality, about what makes her happy and what she’s afraid of. He knows some things from Courfeyrac. She has a younger brother. Her parents are in jail for drug dealing. The bookshop and Grantaire literally saved her life, than came Jehan. She seems strong and he admires her without really knowing her. Combeferre has always been sane, much saner than his two best friends and now… now he’s acting like a teenage boy and he’s very well aware of the fact but there’s little he can do right now. It’s significantly late.

And right now he hates himself for ever not considering her objectively pretty. What if her wrists are bony and her shoulder slumped sometimes, what if she always looks like she could use a good night’s sleep and a hairdresser? Right now she is absolutely stunning, waiting outside the bookshop in a ‘50s dress with a tight bodice and a full skirt in dark blue tones. Her quirky Audrey Hepburn updo screams _Cosette_ and he doesn’t know why the sole fact that she’s given enough effort for having her friends help makes him feel so _ecstatic._ To break the classic look, she’s paired it with a pair of army boots and a huge black leather jacket and _shit,_ is that a Poison Ivy tattoo hugging all of her right sheen?

They hug friendly and he finally notices her pierced lower lip; she probably didn’t find a point in wearing her ring during the morning in the bookshop and he normally isn’t very fond of piercings (though he secretly is of tattoos, Courfeyrac and Enjolras with his V for Vendetta teenage phase which came together with an _Ideas are bulletproof_ engraved on his shoulder blade couldn’t let him have it any other way), but that one just _suits_ her dark plum lips and oh, Courfeyrac was right.

He’s got it bad.

But she smells so much of chocolate that he just can’t help it.

“You look beautiful,” he mutters genuinely and she grimaces slightly, uplifting the rich fabric of her dress in a dramatic pirouette. “It’s _vintage!_ ” she says sarcastically.

They walk side to side by the Seine and it’s such a beautiful hour of the day! Paris smells of rain and the pavement is shining with the water. The skies are full of colorful clouds, pink and grey and purple and their steps are slow as they stare at the small cafés and the bikes with people wearing colorful plastic raincoats and it’s like a quiet yet magical funfair, always mysterious and seeming to have burst out of a fairytale. “Look at that cloud,” she breaks the silence, “it looks like a Halloween pumpkin!”

And it does, only a little later it changes a bit. “Now it looks like a Citroën Deux Chevaux.”

She narrows her eyes, trying to see the resemblance. “Man, ‘you’re odd.”

“So I’ve been told,” smiles Combeferre.

“And that one looks like…”

“Oh,” he sighs deeply, “I know.”

“It looks like a dick…”

“Clouds these days…”

They end up in a dark cinema room, watching _Despicable Me 2_ and quietly discussing the structure of the Minions' society until a father shushes them and they turn their muffled laughter into choking. They soon calm down but it’s hard to concentrate on the movie, even when it’s a Dreamworks animation. He loves staring at her in the dark. Her face has something childish, yet innocence would never be a word one could characterize her with. She looks as if she’s aged prematurely. Her lips are curled in an amused smile yet there is always a veil of darkness above her glance, she’s so different from every woman he’s been with in the past.

It’s the faintest of touches. Their knuckles brush together as they reach for the popcorn in the box and it’s stupid because they have _hugged_ in the past but they flinch like they’ve been struck by electricity and pull their hands away until the movie finishes. They don’t look at each other for the rest of the time but they can feel each other’s presence and warmth near them and it’s a thing quite so new and unexpected, a thing happening without any warning and they do not want it to finish.

But it does. It’s dark when they walk out of the movie theatre and it has started raining again. It’s a slight downpour. They turn and face each other. Combeferre receives a teasing punch on his arm for the fact that he’s shrugged apologetically, as if it is his fault for causing it to rain and they run back to the bookshop which should be closing right now. By the time they reach the shop they are both soaked wet and laughing, Eponine stealing his glasses and realizing how blind he is, both from the facts that the world becomes blurry for her and that he can't make two steps without bumping into a tree, and finally they discover that Cosette and Jehan have already closed the shop. She fishes for her keys in her leather backpack and unlocks the door quickly with rather unsteady fingers, bursting inside to seek for shelter.

A huge smile seems to be imprinted on his face as he reaches for his glasses to take them off and wipe them on the significantly dry fabric of his shirt underneath his blazer. She stands in the middle of the room and kicks off her boots. Her dress is thankfully almost dry, thanks to the leather jacket and she drains the water from her hair, forming a small lake on the floor.

“I’m sorry for coming where you work and causing a mess,” Combeferre shrugs his shoulders, as if he’s the one with the hair that reaches his back, dripping on the wooden floor. “I will help you clean it up…”

Éponine shuts him up by pressing a palm against his mouth, and for an instant they wonders how it would be to shut him up with a kiss but Combeferre in his blazer and wet shirt that sticks all over his torso and his spectacles and his small smiles is different from every guy Éponine has slept with or tried to be with and Éponine in her full skirt dress and polka dot socks and tattoos hugging her calves as she drags him to the coffee room turning the lights on is nothing like any girl Combeferre has been involved in the past, and Combeferre _is_ far more experienced than his appearance reveals.

“Here,” she croons, leading him to the piano and forcing him to sit down. “Here is your punishment for wetting all the floors of our small and humble shop, you have to repay us with your music.”

“What if I don’t?” he sneers playfully and she pushes him a little out of the way, so that she can climb a little on the piano seat and hiss like a wild animal, all of her hair falling from her bun like curtains in front of her face.

“Then I shall have to make a decision concerning your punishment on my own!”

Combeferre chuckles rather bravely for someone who is around Éponine and raises the cap of the piano with excessive care. She holds her breath until his fingers fall softly on the keys and then her eyelids slowly slide shut before an ecstatic smile appears on her face at the sound of the clear, gentle notes that fill the room and like a small girl who has on purpose lost any contact with her surroundings, she starts twirling around the room, the wide skirt of her blue dress forming a swishing circle around her slim figure, and he carefully turns his head to stare at her, never stopping to play, and his heart leaps in his chest because she looks like a fairy, a very dark fairy indeed, but for the first time he finds her beautiful _,_ not delightful, not fascinating, not attractive but _beautiful_ despite her every flaw because her hair is swishing in a psychedelic manner and her movements are clumsy but ethereal at the same time, at least when she manages to not trip over her own feet and it is captivating, she lives in another world right now, faraway from here and for Combeferre who is the sneaky spectator even though he’s the one playing the music, it’s a beautiful dream of green forests and high trees and a full, glistening moon above his head, and when he takes his hands off the piano and the music stops, she stands in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, her lips parted, and he’s quick enough to notice the pick-up on the other side of the room and with a firm stride reach for it, and soon violins and harps fill the room and he wraps one arm around her waist and his fingers around her small hand, and they breathlessly start to waltz around together, _one two three, one two three,_ he leads the way and she follows and she steps on his feet but it doesn’t matter because their eyes are locked together and they are so close that he can see every little freckle around her nose and she can see the pores of his skin and the corners of his lips that twinkle to a small, ecstatic smile and they are not here, of course they _are_ in Paris but in a different Paris, in that of the Belle Époque or the roaring ‘20s and he leans lower and lower until their foreheads touch and they shut their eyes and stop to catch their breath.

“Won’t your brother be waiting for you?” he breathes warmly. Her palms rest on his chest, the wet shirt is clinging uncomfortably on his skin and she can feel his soothing heartbeat underneath her touch. She hates to admit how right he is. “It sounds like the rain has stopped. I’ll walk you home.”

They walk silently, her boots splashing in the holes full of water until they reach her building. “That’s me,” she smiles and he feels breathless, because the drying hair is shoved off her face and he can see every feature and how he wants to touch the corner of her lips with his fingertips, to trace his thumb across a dark eyebrow, to cup her cold cheek with his palm…

She looks up, at the building. “I have to go. Gavroche might have blown the apartment up or turned it into a Nerf fort again.”

“Good luck. And Thank you,” he smiles softly, “for the date.”

She bites her bottom lip as if suddenly she’s scared. “It was a date, wasn’t it?” she asks hesitantly. He makes a step closer to her, giving her the chance to reach for his messy, damp hair. He runs his fingers through the straight sandy brown tufts.

“Last time I checked,” the corners of his lips upturn slightly. “This indeed could be considered as a date.”

“That means you can kiss me?” she asks breathlessly, unconsciously tiptoeing on her boots.

The smiles does not leave his face as he finally cups her face and her skin it’s cold, colder than he’d imagined. “If it's alright with you, I believe that yes, I definitely can kiss you,” he replies hoarsely.

She shuts her eyes and her parted lips indicate that yes, yes that is _definitely_ alright with her, so he leans his head lower and his lips touch her own, it’s only a faint brush, lips teasing her piercing softly, mostly exchanging oxygen through heavy breathing than tasting and touching, but it’s a _kiss,_ and they part without a word before she turns around and climbs up the same stairs in the same building, though with a different smile, thinking that this time, _something_ might change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Eponine and Combeferre are dancing is Offenbach's Barcarolle.


	6. Furry little problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan doesn’t speak, he _meows_ , only he meows without moving his lips, and something seems to be wrong, oh something seems to be _terribly_ wrong, because there is a furry, grey tail peeking out of the pocket of Jehan’s hoodie, and the man must seriously reconsider his taste in fashion, Grantaire has dealt with google eyes and with ears on hats and with the mask of the Phantom of the Opera before, but _tails_?

“Combeferre plays the most perfect piano in the world…”

Courfeyrac’s lips curl to a mischievous smile. “Oh he most definitely does, ‘Ponine dearest, but how would  _you_ happen know?”

Éponine obviously ignores him. “Why wouldn’t I? Grantaire plays the most amazing guitar too…”

Jehan nods. “That’s true.”

“And _you,_ ” she points at the poet with her index finger, “don’t think you’re getting away from hearing your praise.”

Jehan pretends to be clueless. “I don’t have the faintest idea of what you might mean.”

“Don’t think we’ve forgotten how extraordinary your accordion skills are.”

“You play the accordion and you’ve never told me anything…” Courfeyrac looks dangerously hurt and betrayed.

“Courf, I don’t…”

“MY BOYFRIEND PLAYS THE ACCORDION AND NOBODY EVER CARED TO INFORM ME!”

“Exactly,” sneers Éponine. “They all have to play for us one day! It will be awesome!”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU NEVER TOLD ME…”

“Courf, baby…”

“The funniest part,” they heard a deep, hoarse voice coming from the door and turned to be faced with a tired Grantaire who had just arrived. “Will be watching you trying to convince _me_ to play _._ ”

*

It’s raining hard when Jehan shows up in the bookshop one day, soaked wet, carrying a bundle in the pocket of his huge hoodie that’s printed with pastries. Grantaire is the only one left there, and he raises his eyes suspiciously. “What is it you’ve got there?”

The poet’s hair is unbraided and sticking on his scalp and neck, some of it covering his face like a curtain. He raises his eyes slowly, and Grantaire now realizes that despite the cool weather, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes bewildered. He resembles of a scared child who’s just dropped the cookie jar after eating all its contents. Grantaire abandons the  _Moveable Feast_ and makes a step forward. “Jehan?” he asks cautiously, “Is everything alright?”

And then Jehan doesn’t speak, he _meows,_ only he meows without moving his lips, and something seems to be wrong, oh something seems to be _terribly_ wrong, because there is a furry, grey tail peeking out of the pocket of Jehan’s hoodie, and the man must seriously reconsider his taste in fashion, Grantaire has dealt with googly eyes and with ears on hats and with the mask of the Phantom of the Opera before, but _tails_?

Only it’s more than a tail, because Jehan kneels on the floor and reaches for his pocket, carefully taking out one, two, _three_ furry balls and _fuck,_ how huge is that pocket, and _fuck…_

Fuck.

“Are those… kittens?”

They are. Oh, _they are._ They are newborn kittens, their eyes barely open, and their ears hardly pointy yet, furry and trembling as Grantaire kneels down and carefully takes one in his hands, it fits in one palm and its little heart is throbbing in fear.

“I couldn’t leave them out there, they would have died in the storm!” Jehan doesn’t look helpless anymore, now he looks decisive as he frantically searches around for something that can work as a basket and grabs a pillow from the sofa and a fluffy towel to keep them warm. He can only feel lucky for finding Grantaire instead of anyone else, even Cosette. The world may not know this, but cynical, bitter Grantaire is always the one who’ll care the most, without many words, without needing to show it, he’ll just wrap all three kittens in the towel softly and lie on the couch of the poetry room, whispering incoherent nothings and holding them close to his chest because he knows that they still need to feel a heartbeat in order to be calm, and Jehan suggests the rhythmical ticking of a clock for Grantaire to be able to go home, but Grantaire shakes his head and asks Jehan to help him out of his boots, lying there and softly stroking their little heads until the shaking ceases a little.

Grantaire looks serene, breathing peacefully, tired by the lack of sleep and the dark thoughts, the presence of which Jehan cannot overlook, his dark curls sprawled upon a mint green pillow, and the kittens toss and turn in his arms until they fall asleep, and his own blue eyes slide shut. “I’ll stay, don’t worry,” he murmurs.

“Are you sure?” asks Jehan.

“Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He feels the poet walking to him and bending to place a kiss on his forehead. The faint scent of rain and flowers dulls Grantaire’s senses even more. “You did well to bring them here.”

“Thank you,” he can’t see Jehan but he can hear the smile in his voice.

Grantaire falls asleep with a warm weight on his chest.

*

He’s woken up the following morning by some cooing in a voice that belongs to Courfeyrac. The pulsating weight is not on his chest anymore. He blinks a couple of times before his eyes get used to the light filtering through the windows. Jehan is standing near him, holding a disc with his coffee and croissant. “Good morning sunshine,” he smiles softly, “have something to eat and then we can play with the babies.”

Grantaire nods thankfully and sits up, taking the disc on his lap. Courfeyrac is sitting cross-legged on the floor, cooing to a white kitten with orange stripes and holding his palm up so that the kitten can punch it with its little paws, leaving tiny meows. Cosette is beaming widely from the other bed, feeding milk the smallest of the three, a grey furry bundle, with a baby bottle.

“They’re adorable,” sighs Courfeyrac. “I will spend my whole life in this room, playing with this little dude.” The dude meows in approval. He seems to be the most playful and clever of all three, - _if_ he’s a he- and Jehan can’t stop staring at them.

“I wish I could keep them all,” he says, kneeling to reach for the third kitten, a scared little thing which seems to have hidden behind a bookcase and Jehan wants to catch it before a huge Browning tome falls on its head and then he’ll have to hate poetry forever. He finally manages to take the black kitten in his palms and walk to the couch, near Cosette. “But I wouldn’t have the time to fully devote myself on _three_ ,” he says sadly. “We must think of something to do with them.”

The grey kitten has finished its meal and is now on Cosette’s lap, bumping it’s tiny head on her abdomen. She smiles softly. “I’m sure that Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta would love to have this baby. You know how they adore cats and they already have a female, maybe it will grow up better with her company.”

“Great,” beams Courfeyrac, turning to Jehan. “And we can have this fellow.” The orange fellow is now lying on his back, wiggling its paws in the air, stretching and meowing in delight while Courfeyrac rubs its belly.

“But Courf,” says Jehan softly, cradling the black one on his chest, “we don’t _live_ together.”

Courfeyrac shrugs his shoulders. “Technically we don’t, but I spend most of the time at your place. We can keep it there,” he smirks. “Though I’d like to see Marius’ face when he’d find a kitten climbed on his head while he’s trying to study Hebrew. Though Enjolras' reaction if that happened to him would be even better!”

The silence that falls is palpable while three pairs of eyes turn to Grantaire’s scruffy figure, and only broken by a meow. Enjolras hasn’t shown up to study in the bookshop for almost a month. Combeferre and Courfeyrac have noticed how irritable he has become and Jehan, Cosette and Éponine know that Grantaire has been better.

The dark-haired man tries his best to ignore his friends as he gets up, walking to Jehan and spreading his arms. “Can I have him?” he asks with a slightly shaky, throaty voice.

“Of course,” breathes Jehan, carefully handing it to his friend. The kitten makes a small sound as he slides it in the pocket of his green hoodie, and when it peeks its little black head outside, Grantaire is sure he’s in love.

“Here’s what we’ll do with those two,” suggests Cosette with a tender voice, as they’re all sure that their beloved ménage-à-trois will immediately adopt the grey kitten. “Marius loves dogs but he’s allergic to cats so sadly I can’t take any of these to my place because he might live with Courf but he spends most of his day with me. I understand that Éponine already has a lot in her mind and Bahorel… a Doberman?”

“Two.”

“Right. So what if they grew up in the bookshop? You spend half of your life in here, after all. The ginger fellow will belong to Jehan and Courfeyrac and the black _lady_ –yes I’m a hundred percent positive that it’s a she- will be Grantaire’s. You can take them with you wherever you go to sleep for the night, but practically they’ll live here.”

Jehan turns to face his boyfriend and they both beam excitedly. “Yes,” nods Jehan, scratching the kitten on Courfeyrac’s lap behind its ears. “Yes, that sounds perfect!”

They see Grantaire cracking a small smile after all these days, and Jehan seems ready to sing with happiness. “I think I can do that. I promise I won’t get _too_ drunk to feed it and change its sand, or step on it.”

“We know you won’t,” whispers Cosette, and Grantaire believes her.

*

 **Librairie des Abbesses** is not just a shop. It’s their home.

It’s true, Grantaire, Jehan, Éponine and Feuilly do share an apartment already. But in the bookshop they have all invented their whole being, not just Jehan and Cosette, but the others too, even Feuilly who doesn’t work there. It’s the home of their art and their talents, it’s their shelter when they need to hide away and forget and it’s the place where they spend the biggest part of their day, eating and sleeping and working and reading. It’s a paradise really, a castle waiting to be explored, hundreds of books and new stories to learn.

When most of the customers go away and when their friends decide to leave, Jehan and Courfeyrac make it _their_ home. They kiss for hours in the poetry room, lazily, sloppily and sweetly. Sometimes they make love on the floor of the fantasy room, between the dragons and the elves and all the mythical creatures, it’s horribly uncomfortable and Jehan’s muscles are sore afterwards but it couldn’t be more magical. Some other times they kiss and it’s all teeth and tongues clashing together, and Courfeyrac shoves his sweaty body against the shelves in the main room, hidden behind the bookcases, and takes him just there, hands clutching breathlessly on the wooden racks and the intoxicating scent of books making love together with them. It’s not a disgrace against the wisdom and they knowledge that they’re touching with their naked skin, no. It’s love that everyone and everything deserves, love that they need to share. Simple as that.

Some nights they fall asleep in the shop, books on Jehan’s lap and his head on Courfeyrac’s lap, sometimes on the beds, some others on the wooden floor in the middle of the room, and they might wake up in a need of a good massage but that’s never a problem, not to mention that the few stray sunrays peeking through the window, bathing Jehan’s shining hair and freckled cheeks in light.

That morning Courfeyrac wakes up first, with two furry paws pressed on his cheeks. Cracking an eye open he remembers everything and smiles sleepily, placing his hands underneath the kitten’s belly and placing it on his abdomen, where it starts playing with the hem of his t-shirt.

Shifting slightly in order to not drop the kitten which is anyway clutching on the fabric like its life depends on it, he reaches for his Polaroid. The kitten meows playfully. “Hey, where are you going?” whispers a betrayed Courfeyrac as it jumps off him and rushes to rest on the crook of Jehan’s neck. The poet smiles serenely in his sleep and stirs slightly without opening his eyes. It starts pulling his long hair playfully, and Courfeyrac rushes to snap a picture or two before Jehan opens his eyes. It’s gorgeous. The sun is shining between the white clouds this morning, the stripes on the white fur have the same shade with Jehan’s hair and Courfeyrac wants to bathe them in flowers and everything that’s beautiful.

*

Courfeyrac and Éponine arrive the next morning with plastic bags full with everything they’ll need for the kittens. Joly has already adopted the grey cat and visited the vet with Musichetta and Bossuet, arranging appointments for the other two.

Grantaire is happy. Yes, for once Grantaire is not _okay._ He is happy. He is full. His day is full. He is more than willing to commit himself to working, he smiles to customers, he serves the best beverages and paints flowers on the shelves of the poetry room. The small black kitten follows him everywhere and spends a significant part of the mornings curled inside the pocket of his hoodie. In the evenings, when the customers lessen, he stops and relaxes for a while with Éponine. Combeferre comes and takes her to go out a few times. She seems happy, _glowing._ She doesn’t speak of Marius anymore. Sometimes Gavroche comes after school to play with the cat. Grantaire is fine. He’s happy. And he’s achieved that on his own.

Until one night he shows up again. It’s another rainy night, of those that Paris has already been more than used to. He isn’t wet this time. He’s holding a red umbrella when he knocks the locked door and Grantaire finds him dry and flushed when he opens. He can’t be angry, not when he knows it has all been his fault and he steps back, his heart skipping a beat. Enjolras nods sharply and enters inside.

“You seem to have forgotten your bag,” is the first thing Grantaire says to break the silence, his eyes falling on Enjolras’ empty hands.

“I didn’t come here to study,” replies Enjolras. “Courfeyrac told me I would find you here tonight.”

Grantaire stops still at his place, his back turned to Enjolras. He remains silent, until they hear a soft meow. Their eyes fall on the corner of the door that leads to the fantasy room and all that Grantaire can do is smile. The kitten has grown up a little. It is still very small, but it can hardly fit in his palm anymore. Its eyes are open now and have the most wonderful shade of bright green. It’s staring at them hesitantly and Grantaire kneels to take it in his hands.

“Courfeyrac told me about… this,” mutters Enjolras then. “He told me you’ve been spending time with the cat.”

“Is there anything else that Courfeyrac told you that I should know about?” asks Grantaire, never facing Enjolras as he stands up.

“As a matter of fact there is.” Grantaire turns around. “You play the guitar.” It’s the last thing he expected to hear. As if things haven’t become strange enough yet, the man wraps his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist, stopping him at his place. They are frozen.

“Your hands are cold,” is the first thing a shaking Grantaire managed to breathe. “Wait here, you need something warm. Cosette made some cinnamon cake.”

Enjolras looks puzzled, but unexpectedly enough obeys. “Good, I’ll wait here,” he says, sitting on the couch and grabbing a huge Shakespeare tome a client –or Jehan- seems to have left on the seat. However Grantaire’s intentions are different. “Hold the Cat while I’m at the kitchen,” he says, dropping the kitten on the bewildered man’s lap.

To say that Enjolras is terrified would be an understatement. He had never owned a pet in his life, nor had he felt the need to –apart from that goldfish, but apparently it had committed suicide, and that says a lot for Enjolras’ relationship with animals. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, the animal is clutching with its murderous claws on his jeans and sliding off, and when he tries to catch it, it archs its furry back –isn’t that what cats do when they’re angry?- and Enjolras feels totally fucked. Its tiny heart is pounding against his hands and he panics, Enjolras is a man who can beat the fuck out of cops when things get violent but he can’t hold a kitten, he simply _can’t._

Thankfully Grantaire returns soon, holding a mug full of hot coffee and a slice of cinnamon cake on a plate. Noticing the agony on Enjolras’ face as the kitten is trying to play with him, he raises an eyebrow. “Bonding?” he asks sarcastically.

“Sort of,” murmurs Enjolras, breathing in relief as Grantaire takes the kitten on his lap and starts rubbing its fur absent-mindedly.

“Eat,” he says, “I didn’t get up and walk all the way to the kitchen for nothing.”

Enjolras simply rolls his eyes and takes a bite from the cake. It’s very good, everything he has tasted from Cosette is good, but right now he needs the coffee more.

He _always_ needs the coffee more.

“I wanted to ask you a favor,” Enjolras breaks the silence after taking a sip from his coffee.

Grantaire’s lips become a thin line. “I should have guessed.”

“Will you listen to me?” Enjolras seems tense and Grantaire hates seeing him like this. He wants to comfort him, to kiss him, to tell him what he means to him.

Only Grantaire means nothing to Enjolras. Enjolras simply wants a favor.

“You draw beautifully. No, don’t you dare interrupt me! I want you to draw something for our group. Pamphlets and posters, some ironic or educative graphic to fit with the slogans. Right now we need to spread the word about the LGBTQA community and the immigrants in education. From kindergarten to university. The government does very little to…”

Grantaire interrupts him, his hand stopping to move over the cat’s fur. “How do you know I won’t let you down?”

“I’m willing to take my risks.” Enjolras replies immediately, as if he’s rehearsed the answer to a question he’d already expected. “I believe in you.”

Grantaire’s heart is racing so much that he’s sure Enjolras can hear it and he immediately feels ashamed. He feels ashamed for many things, really. For the sketches he remembers Enjolras laying his eyes upon (he never forgot), for his horrible reaction (he tried to forget in order not to drink himself to death), for the unwashed state of his hair and the apparent stains of paint on his sweater and hands and underneath his fingers (he needs this).

“Look at you,” Enjolras continues as the kitten purrs and his voice is almost _tender_ and Grantaire thinks he’ll pass out. “You have dedicated yourself solely upon it.”

“How do you know? Let me guess… Courfeyrac!”

Enjolras smiles, of all things, and it’s soft and unusual and it suits his fierce, stunning features perfectly. "I don’t need any Courfeyrac to tell me. I can see it. You have so much to give, Grantaire. So much faith, so much…” _love. That’s what I have to give. But you don’t need it._ “How do you call it?”

“I don’t know its gender yet though Cosette is convinced it’s a she. Joly has arranged an appointment with the vet on Friday.”

“It needs to have a name.”

Grantaire grimaces as the kitten meows quietly and snuggles against his abdomen. “Jehan and Courfeyrac call their own Shakespeare but I’m not sure whether you’d like the name it after your favorite artist. Lautrec, isn’t it? Or Jackson Pollock? Joly has named their own Terminator… I mean Bahorel did when he saw how tiny it was and Bossuet liked it, Joly hasn’t come in terms with it yet. You could always call it something conventional which would be too bad, like Whiskers or something equally ridiculous, or you could call it Robespierre…”

“Enjolras?” Grantaire is trying very hard to hide its amusement. “You don’t even care for this cat, why do you pretend to be caring?”

Enjolras reaches carefully to stroke the kitten’s soft head and immediately pulls his hand back when the kitten stretches, startling him. “You care, that’s enough.”

Grantaire avoids his glance, he can feel his cheeks burning and he can’t give himself away so easily. “I think I’ll stick on calling it Cat. It’s used to hearing it, after all.”

Enjolras snorts, leaning closer. “You think you’re being original, don’t you?” 

Grantaire smirks sarcastically. “Terribly,” he breathes throatily and he only has a second or two for him to realize what is happening and for his heart to start pounding madly in advance, before Enjolras cups his face rather aggressively and presses his lips on his own, moving harshly, nibbling and sucking as if he wants to taste all of Grantaire _now,_ on that exact second, and he doesn’t know where to start from, he doesn’t know how to gain all their lost time. Grantaire responds eagerly into the kiss, leaving a small, throaty moan, and he cups Enjolras’ soft neck with his hands, parting his lips slightly in order to allow the other man’s warm, wet tongue to slide into his mouth.

And then the kitten meows demandingly.

They part, chuckling softly, their hands never leaving each other. “Oh, Apollo,” sighs Grantaire, resting his forehead on the crook of Enjolras’ neck breathlessly. Enjolras runs his fingers through the dark curls, huffing quietly. “And I thought that I had missed that horrible nickname…”

“For how long?” whispers Grantaire after what seems like hours, curled between Enjolras’ knees with the blond man’s arms wrapped around his torso and the kitten resting on his thigh.

“For _so_ long,” mutters Enjolras against his skin, planting kisses all over his head, holding him tightly, possessively, as if Grantaire has shown signs of eloping. “Ever since you mocked my patriotic tendencies and I had to invent a sister in order to buy some cupcakes.”

Grantaire smiles serenely, throwing his head back on Enjolras shoulder and playing with a golden lock between his fingers. “I knew from the first moment that you had no sister.”

Enjolras snorts. “I knew from the first moment that you knew that I had no sister.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow challengingly. “I knew that you knew…”

“Grantaire? Enough.”

The man smirks, his fingers stroking Enjolras’ knuckles tenderly. “I can’t believe you are real.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “There’s hardly anything I can do about it.”

“You can let me touch you. All the time.”

“I will beg you to do so.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, really. I’m the happiest fuckin’ person in the universe right now.”

“Well…” Enjolras pretends to be thinking. “Play the guitar for me. Make the pamphlets and the posters. Love me unconditionally.”

“No. Maybe.” Grantaire smiles softly against Enjolras’ lips, as they brush together lazily. “And _yes_.”

After centuries of kissing, their breaths finally become even and their eyes drift shut. They sleep on the couch, Grantaire’s head resting on Enjolras’ chest, their limbs tangled together and their arms wrapped around each other. Cat follows Grantaire’s example and moves during the night.

Enjolras wakes up with a second warm weight curled upon his chest.


	7. Probably full of nargles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mistletoes,” he murmurs, careful not to wake the others, “Do you think it's infested with nargles?”
> 
> He can literally hear Enjolras rolling his eyes. “Are you going all Luna Lovegood on me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this might not be the end you expected, nothing really intriguing or particularly interesting, but I had some (many) early Christmas feelings so here you are, I felt like I wanted it to be like this. Sorry if it's silly.  
> But man, the feedback on this fic was absolutely amazing and I really don't know how to thank you! You've brought so many smiles on my face with your kind comments and I hope that the sickening sweetness made you crack up a smile or two.  
> Also if any of you is interested in creating such a bookstore in the not-so-near future, somewhere in England or in France, contact me on my new tumblr (lepoeteimaginaire) and we might start the planning:P (or just obsess over our baby dorks!)  
> Thank you for everything, sorry for the extremely early Christmas fic!  
> Plus, I thought that I'd never work with suggestions, so if there was anything you'd like to see me write, prompt me here or on tumblr and I will be more than happy to try and please you!

_I will honour Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year. –Charles Dickens_

Winter comes late that year. December is a pleasant month with not much cold and Grantaire and Jehan have been quite gloomy for the fact. “What’s the point in sunny Christmas?” Grantaire has been muttering throughout the first half of the month during his breaks from work, when he curles on a sofa with Éponine to relax their aching feet and catch up on some reading. From the beginning of the month it has been obvious that work won’t be easy, and as Christmas approaches steadily the shop becomes more and more crowded, full with people that come and go, wrapped in coats, hats and scarves, placing their dripping umbrellas in the umbrella stand after the bell on the door tingles to announce their presence and the fact that they’ve come in search for presents for friends, family and sometimes themselves. Most of them spend a little time in the coffee room, taking a small break from their shopping while reading a book and sipping some hot chocolate with colorful marshmallows melting in it and the bookshop is full with people, old and young, busy and relaxed but always with a smile as they notice the books in the precious different sections.

Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac still have some crazy studying to finish, a few exams and essays before universities close for the holidays, and they spend most of their evenings in the bookshop -especially when rush hour is over- wrapped in blankets and warm jumpers, studying while Cosette and Éponine bring them cookies, cake, sometimes actual food, and tons of strong coffees. Grantaire is painting again and that time Enjolras poses without hesitation, without either of them having anything to hide. Jehan is writing on his typing machine, full of inspiration after a short period of writer’s block, and when an exhausting workday is over, all Éponine wants to do is read, learn and discover everything she doesn’t know and everything she can’t even imagine that exists or has happened before. Sometimes she interrupts Combeferre who is studying neuroanatomy or ophthalmology with Joly –he, Bossuet and Musichetta- join them most of the nights- and asks his opinion concerning her next read, as if he’s the one working in a bookshop. Whenever any member of the quaint lot, or rather family, composed by all those friends feels stressed and needs relief –or whenever Courfeyrac simply feels like the queen of procrastination-, they seek for the two –sometimes three, when their favorite ménage-à-trois joins them- kittens, rubbing, playing and cuddling the fuck out of them until they earn a few playful scratches –especially from Jehan and Courfeyrac’s Shakespeare- or contented purrs.

Studying becomes smoother after the middle of the month and the sudden relaxation and inhale of relief is followed by a drastic change in the weather forecast. The rain freezes on the pavements of Paris and the first snowflakes start twirling around on the white, foggy sky. A thin layer of white, puffy snow is covering the rooftops and tree branches.

Éponine is counting the days to Christmas like a small child. Sometimes she and Combeferre are lucky enough to remain alone, especially when Combeferre’s apartment is full with Courfeyrac and Jehan’s rather explicit moans or insufferable sexual tension coming from Grantaire and Enjolras. The heater at Éponine’s room is broken and some nights her brother, Gavroche joins them in the bookstore and the three of them sleep there. The boy is determined to make Combeferre’s life difficult from the beginning as he obviously doesn’t really approve of her sister’s taste in men. He wakes them up with savage wails and draws pink moustaches on Combeferre’s face while he sleeps, he puts salt in his coffee and replaces his books with porn. Most of the time Combeferre watches with amusement as Gavroche is being chased by a furious Éponine –who should definitely put more than a quarter in the swear jar, as her brother very kindly reminds her while he’s running and jumping over pillow barricades. Soon enough though, Gavroche grows to like Combeferre even if he won’t admit it, -Éponine completely blames it on her boyfriend’s chocolate-y skills which involve excessive amounts of marshmallows during the holidays- and the three of them end up curled near the fireplace in the main room –which, given the red and warm woody tones has been solely converted to the group’s Christmas spirited room, decorated in lights and ribbons-, reading Christmas stories. Dickens’ _Christmas Carol_ is of course their favorite but Éponine loves the _Chimes_ as well, and she gives a collector’s antique version of both books to Combeferre as an early Christmas present. Needless to say, he is ecstatic.

He gives her her own gift one night when Gavroche isn’t present, though. Her breath hitches on her throat as she opens the square box with trembling hands, and traces her callused, from work, fingers over the rusty bronze of the vintage pendant pocketwatch necklace. He shows her how to work it and he covers it with his palm on her own while she breathes that it’s _beautiful._

“Every minute that passes,” he whispers, staring at her with that straightforward, easily readable look behind his glasses which has nothing to hide, nothing to imply but pure honesty and warmth, “I will be here. Just let be me in your life and I promise that I won’t allow a second to pass that you’ll feel alone.” He leans closer and their lips brush together. He can feel a small smile forming on her own.

Their kisses soon turn harsh and passionate. Combeferre is the last man to give such an impression but apparently Éponine comes to discover that he is more than sufficient. Fuck this. Combeferre is _hot._

They make love on the carpet, completely naked underneath the blanket, the sweat on their skin shimmering with the dim light coming from the Christmas lights and the fireplace. He is everything. Gentle and fierce, soft and experienced. He’s not perfect, no one is. But Combeferre is very _close_ to perfection. As for Éponine, she is everything he had ever needed to be complete. She lives every sentiment with excess. She never was sad; she was desperate. She never was angry; she was furious. She never was annoyed; she was disgusted. And now she is not happy; she is ecstatic. Éponine helps Combeferre feel free and alive.

On Christmas Eve some of them meet with family, some others drink and dance in a bar, but after midnight they all meet at the bookshop to exchange presents and be together. The main room of the bookstore, shut for the public, has been decorated by Grantaire, Feuilly and Jehan, with guest appearances from Courfeyrac and his quirky taste that matches perfectly with Jehan’s –Éponine blames all the glitter and colorful feathers on those two- and Combeferre with his warm, classical sense of Christmas spirit. There is a huge Christmas tree with pocket books and poetry on small rolls of parchment between the other ornaments and light bulbs twinkling playfully. More garlands and mistletoe are added and Enjolras tries hard to educate them on eco-friendly Christmas decorations, with the threat of building a barricade with the presents, blankets and ladders used, hesitating to promise that _no revolutionaries will be harmed for the purposes of this task._ Despite all the hiccups –Terminator, the grey kitten, tearing a pillow apart and filling the room with hen feathers, Shakespeare managing to break a porcelain snowman and Bossuet stumbling numerous times over the lights, pulling them from the socket and landing himself on the floor, driving Joly to hysterics-, everything goes as planned and the result could not smell more of Christmas.

Feuilly shows up dressed as gingerbread man, having been working to a children’s party till late. Bahorel is already particularly tipsy and dressed in shocking red, a Santa Claus hat on his head and a painfully tight shirt that stretches over his torso. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta are all in formal black and white, the boys in suits and Musichetta in a gorgeous gown that clings on her curves, as for Marius and Cosette, they are particularly overdressed even for Christmas Eve, in shiny suits and an adorable puffy, velvet dress, and he’s drunkenly singing Christmas carols in various languages –including Russian and Hindi.

They all exchange presents. Most of them are books, but there are some opera tickets, paintbrushes and canvases, a banana case, a ballet tutu, a boxing subscription for a year and a Minion plushie. Éponine who’s wearing a tight leather dress and tartan tights is ecstatic with her Slytherin dress robes –from Grantaire- and Combeferre in his smart blue suit, coming straight from a family dinner, gratefully smiles at Joly’s present. “One can never have enough socks,” he quotes Albus Dumbledore, proudly holding his new duck printed pair. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

That, together with the Slytherin robes give the signal to start a Harry Potter Christmas marathon, including all the parts of the movies which are full of seasonal spirit, as well as the parts from the books read with Bahorel’s obnoxiously loud voice, occasionally commentated by Bossuet. The three kittens are playing among them in huge, kitsch Christmas bows and Grantaire swears that if that scars his – _their-_ poor Cat psychologically for life, then he’ll blame it all on Jehan and shove the top of the Christmas tree up his ass. _“You’d make a perfect star, baby,”_ Courfeyrac winked and Enjolras winced before pulling his boyfriend for a kiss, deciding he had heard enough for a lifetime.

Cosette has prepared wonderful Christmas sweets, with a little help from Marius, Jehan and Courfeyrac. The chocolate pudding is delicious and Combeferre tries to remain collected but ends up ravishing most of it, there are plates full of candy canes that Bahorel and Feuilly find amusingly dirty for a reason, and Joly tries to keep Musichetta and Bossuet from eating anything but fruit cake –but the two of them do finish half of the tarts. And the cherry cheesecake. And the Christmas tree biscuits.

Grantaire and Éponine spend a while curled together, eating like starved children, their mouths full with truffles and pavlovas and meringue wreaths. They only stop when Enjolras comes near them with a terrifyingly serious look upon his face, asking Éponine to excuse him as he needs his boyfriend for a while. There are wolf whistles and cheers as everyone assumes that Enjolras simply wants to shag Grantaire in the poetry room.

But Enjolras makes Grantaire play the guitar instead.

They move it to the coffee room. A severely flushed Combeferre finally settles on the piano and Jehan is all smiles in his extravagant tulle purple dress and Princess Leia hair as he wraps his arms around his beloved accordion and starts squeezing and stroking the keys, his cheeks rosy with excitement.

Grantaire plays the guitar beautifully and they all protest for never having heard him in the past, but for Enjolras it’s gloriously intimate in a completely different way. Grantaire looks humble, shy and gentle, shaved and flushed, granting his friends with small smiles, thanking them subtly for their enthusiasm. Enjolras knows that Grantaire had never really believed in himself and his abilities. His self-esteem was always low, yet here he is now, in his dark green jumper that compliments his blue eyes so beautifully, black hair shining and combed back in an attempt to be tamed, sitting on a pile of pillows while his fingers do miracles against the chords, filling the room with the nostalgic notes of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra’s songs.

Combeferre is perfect on the piano, but the accordion fits Jehan excellently as well. There’s something lively, delightful and full of talent and charm in the old instrument that’s huge in comparison with the poet’s tiny figure, yet slightly melancholic at the same time, a reminiscence of eras gone long before, of a Paris found only in history books and in revolutionary dreams.

Everybody sings _Let it snow, Baby it’s cold outside_ and _The Christmas Waltz_ as the three friends play, and at the last song, _Last Christmas,_ -because being cheesy is _fun-_ Bahorel produces a tiny harmonica out of nowhere and accompanies them, causing everyone to burst in happy laughter. Courfeyrac is jumping around in his painfully ugly Christmas sweater with the kittens and elves and the penguins, having a winter picnic on Santa Claus’ snowed courtyard, taking pictures happily. He hasn’t given Jehan his present yet, and after they stop playing and everyone in the room bursts into applauds, he hands him a single white and gold cupcake which resembles a snowflake and writes _Merry Xmas love!_ It’s simple as that and it already is enough for Jehan, as it reminds him the way they first got together, all the cupcakes that he baked for Courfeyrac and decorated them with poetry. However he’s not expecting what he finds underneath the frosting: a shiny, small silver ring with a tiny shimmering snowflake on it and Courfeyrac rushes to explain that it’s only a promise between them because Jehan means the world for him, but the poet shuts him up with a breathtaking kiss that tastes of happy tears, and Courfeyrac wraps his arms around his partner’s slim waist and twirls him around the room as they both scream happily like children and everyone cheers.

It’s almost already morning and they’re all full and tired when Bossuet’s bald head falls on Musichetta’s lap and he starts snoring, followed by Joly who falls asleep on her shoulder, breathing through the mouth. The three of them occupy a couch and Musichetta with Joly end up stealing all of poor Bossuet’s covers. Marius and Cosette curl up on an armchair and Bahorel dozes off on the floor with his arms, legs and mouth wide open as an exhausted Feuilly passed out on top of his abdomen, still dressed as a gingerbread man. The other sofa is occupied by Jehan and Courfeyrac, sleeping while facing each other with Courfeyrac’s chin on Jehan’s forehead and their fingers entwine, the Polaroid camera resting near them and the ring on Jehan’s finger shimmering at the dim light of the fire.

Grantaire isn’t asleep. His body is sprawled upon a pile of pillows and blankets on the wooden floor, in front of the fireplace. Enjolras’ body is pressed against his own, limbs and arms wrapped around him possessively like an octopus’ tentacles. The dark-haired man feels peaceful and relaxed, the only sounds that he hears being the crackling of the fire and Enjolras’ steady breathing.

“Hey,” he whispers. Enjolras leaves a small whimper. “You asleep?”

“Mmmhnm… not anymore,” groans Enjolras, only to end up tightening his grip around Grantaire’s torso. He has been slightly dozing off so now it doesn’t take him long to turn around and give his partner a small smile, and he’s so angelically beautiful with the shadows of the fire reflecting upon his face, that Grantaire can only stare, utterly bewitched.

They roll on their backs and stare at the ceiling. Above their heads is hanging some mistletoe, Courfeyrac’s mischievous touch in the decoration. It’s red and green like the festive contrasts of their warm, woolen jumpers wrapped around each other and Grantaire feels Enjolras flinching against him rather awkwardly. He knows that the blonde most definitely is not one to go for traditions, but Grantaire can’t help chuckling softly. “Mistletoes,” he murmurs, careful not to wake the others, “Do you think it's infested with nargles?”

He can literally hear Enjolras rolling his eyes. “Are you going all Luna Lovegood on me?”

“Any reasons I shouldn’t be?”

“You’re odd.”

“You love it.”

“I love _you._ ” Enjolras corrects Grantaire, cupping his face and pressing their lips together before the man can even prepare himself. Enjolras tastes of Christmas, of chocolate and wood and noisette cream and a small sigh escapes from the bottom of Grantaire’s throat as he throws his fingers through Enjolras’ hair, pulling slightly. Enjolras’ lips are magical, red and wet and smooth like cherries as they move against those of Grantaire’s, sliding his tongue across his lover’s bottom lip, teeth and mouth. It’s wonderful, Grantaire’s heart is pounding so loudly underneath his jumper that he’s sure the whole group of their friends will be woken up, and he wraps his knee around Enjolras’ waist, pressing their bodies closer to each other. He leaves a quiet moan and inhales his boyfriend’s sweet scent, deciding that mistletoes are not so stupid after all, and Christmas might not be that pointless, especially when they're in Paris, and it actually ends up to be white.

A tiny yet possessive meow is heard and they break the kiss, breathing hungrily as they shift a little on the pillows to see Cat, awake, slightly bigger than when Jehan first found him, staring at them with those huge green eyes and a tartan bow around his neck. Enjolras groans softly as Grantaire leaves a small sigh. “This is weird. I feel like I’m doing the do in front of a kid.”

“Would you just…” Enjolras grits his teeth and shudders at the mental image, burying his face in the crook of his boyfriend's neck. Grantaire nods in mild amusement. “Yes, this is weird.”

It’s then that two pillows find them on their heads. “Get a fuckin’ room, you disgusting pricks! We have plenty of ancient books ready to be defiled and besmirched!” It’s Éponine, her sleepy voice absolutely terrifying as a dozed Courfeyrac mumbles “Young love!” dreamily and Bahorel together with Cosette growl “SHUT UP!” as Jehan throws a pillow in their general direction, without opening his eyes.

Grantaire stares at the piles of their sleeping friends, socked feet getting all over the way, hanging mouths and insufferable snoring. The room is beautiful and it smells of love and Christmas and they are all together. It’s the same room he has spent hours, days and months working in, organizing the philosophy department, snorting at many titles and peeking through his favorite classes during his breaks, brewing coffees and hiding beer behind the history books. The people are the same yet there are many more now and no matter how crazy, weird and insufferable butts they might become sometimes, they are _his_ butts and he loves them.

The **Librairie des Abbesses** is full of books yet Grantaire stares at Jehan’s sleeping form and thinks that if Jehan decided to write a book about them, a ridiculous rom-com slash science fiction slash horror story about an alcoholic, a Disney princess, a dreamy poet who can kick the fuck out of you if he wants and a crazy psycho with a Harry Potter fixation, then it would be the best damn book in the universe.

He smiles softly and cups the soft cheeks of the beautiful man lying near him. They’re in a bookshop. There is mistletoe on the ceiling and hot chocolate near the pillows. Their friends are firing threats concerning the wellbeing of their reproductive system. And as his eyes meet with those of Enjolras' and they exchange a quiet, mischievous glance, Grantaire remembers that _something_ has been left unfinished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also you might or might not already know that the Librairie des Abbesses exists, only it's not located on Rue St. Michel of Paris, but at Montmartre. I just couldn't resist using the name and outside appearance (black with a tiny pop of red :P) as of course the inside is a lovechild of my own limited imagination.


End file.
